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MALCOLM. 















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MALCOLM 


EV 

GEORGE MACDONALO 

W 

AUTHOR OF “ ROBERT FALCONER,” “ ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD.” 
“ SEABOARD PARISH,” “ SIR GIBBIE,” ETC., ETC. 


** 'l'he greatest step is that out of doors.'' 



PHILADELPHIA: 

DAVID McKAY, PUBLISHER, 

610 SOUTH WASHINGTON SQUARE. 








/i— - 




■* 

© 



































CONTENTS. 


Chap. page 

I.— Miss Horn . , « r , , , i 

I 

II.— Barbara Catanach ; .... 3 

III. — The Mad Laird , I . „ . 7 

IV. — Phemy Mair • • • • • ’io 

V. — Lady Florimel ...... 14 

VI. — Duncan MacPhail * , * „ ,22 

VII. — Alexander Graham , r # . ,29 

VIII. — The Swivel 37 

IX. — The Salmon-Trout . , , , , 44 

X. — The Funeral • , 52 

XI. — The Old Church ...... 57 

XII.— The Churchyard ...... 63 

XIII. — The Marquis of Lossie . . . . ,68 

XIV. — Meg Partan’s Lamp . . . . .75 

XV. — The Slope of the Dune . .... 79 

XVI. — The Storm ....... 87 

XVII.— The Accusation . .... i 92 

XVIII.— The Quarrel ...... 97 

XIX.— Duncan’s Pites . . . . . . 103 

115 


XX.— Advances 


CONTENTS. 


▼i 


Chap. 

XXI. ^Mediation . • 

• 

• 

% 

fag* 

• U9 

XXII. — Whence and Whither ? 

• 

• 

9 

• I2S 

XXIII. — Armageddon . . 

• 

4 

• 

- 131 

XXIV. — The Feast • « 

« 

9 

«* 

9 

. 138 

XXV.— The Night Watch 

• 

• 

W 

9 

• 148 

XXVI.— Not at Church • 

• 

• 

• 

. 154 

XXVII.— Lord Gernon , ; 

• 

r 

4 

0 

• 161 

XXVIII.— A Fisher Wedding • 

• 

• 

f 

. 166 

XXIX.— Florimel and Duncan . 

• 

» 

• 

• 170 

XXX. — The Revival . 

• 

4 

t 

. 1S1 

XXXI.— Wandering Stars 

* 

• 

4 

• 

• 193 

XXXII.— The Skipper’s Chamber 

• 

« 

9 

• 198 

XXXIII.— The Library . 

• 

■ 

t 

c 

4 

. 207 

XXXIV.— Milton and the Bay Mare 


4 

9 

. 213 

XXXV.— Kirkbyres « * 

• 

• 

4 

. 216 

XXXVI.— The Blow 

• 

4 

9 

. 224 

XXXVII.— The Cutter « . 

• 

4 

4 

• 228 

XXXVIII.— The Two Dogs , 

« 

* 

• 

9 

. 231 

XXXIX.— Colonsay Castle * 

• 

• 

9 

. 236 

XL.— The Deil’s Winnock • 

c 

• 

• 

. 242 

XLI.— The Clouded Sapphires 

• 

k 

• 

. 247 

XLII.— Duncan’s Disclosure • 

k 

4 

« 

. 257 

XLIII.— The Wizard’s Chamber 

• 

k 

0 

• 264 

XLIV.— The Hermit . * . 

• 

k 

0 

• 269 

XLV — Mr Cairns and the Marquis 

• 

p 

0 

n 

0 

. 277 

XLVI.— The Baillies’ Barn 

• 

• 

7 t 

0 

• 284 

XLVII.— Mrs Stewart’s Claim . 

• 

• 

• 

• 292 

XLV IIL— The Baillies’ Barn again 

• 

4 

• 

• 30a 


CONTENTS. 


Chap. 

XLIX.— Mount Pisgah . « 

L. — Lizzy Findlay . . c 

LI.— The Laird’s Burrow • , 

LII.— Cream or Scum . , 

LIII.— The Schoolmaster’s Cottags 
LI V.— One Day 

LV.— The Same Night . e 

LVI. — Something Forgotten , 

LVIL— The Laird’s Quest . . 

LVIII.— Malcolm and Mrs Stewart , 

LIX. — An Honest Plot . , 

LX.— The Sacrament . , 

LXI. — Miss Horn and the Piper . 
LXII.— The Cuttle-fish and the Crab 
LXIII. — Miss Horn and Lord Lossie . 

LXIV. — The Laird and his Mother * 
LXV.— The Laird’s Vision 
LXVI.— The Cry from the Chamber * 
LXVII.— Feet of Wool . « « 

LXVIII— Hands of Iron . • • 

LXIX.— The Marquis and the Schoolmaster 
LXX.— End or Beginnino , , 


vn 

PAGS 

- 309 
. 320 

• 324 

- 329 

• 332 
. 337 
. 346 
. 350 

• 353 

• 358 
« 362 
« 37i 
. 379 
. 383 

• 388 

• 400 

- 403 

. 407 
. 4i3 
. 4i9 

. 424 

• 43* 


















MALCOLM 


CHAPTER L 

MISS HORN. 

“ Na, na ; I hae nae feelin’s, I’m thankfu’ to say. I never kent 
ony guid come o’ them. They’re a terrible sicht i’ the gait.” 

“ Naebody ever thoucht o’ layin’ ’t to yer chairge, mem.” 

“ ’Deed, I aye had eneuch adu to du the thing I had to du, 
no to say the thing ’at naebody wad du but mysel’. I hae had 
nae leisuP for feelin’s an’ that,” insisted Miss Horn. 

But here a heavy step descending the stair just outside the 
room attracted her attention, and checking the flow of her speech 
perforce, with three ungainly strides she reached the landing. 

“Watty Witherspail! Watty!” she called after the footsteps 
down the stair. 

“ Yes, mem,” answered a gruff voice from below. 

“ Watty, whan ye fess the bit boxie, jist pit a hemmer an’ a 
puckle nails i’ your pooch to men’ the hen-hoose-door. The tane 
maun be atten’t till as weel’s the tither.” 

“ The bit boxie” was the coffin of her third cousin Griselda 
Campbell, whose body lay on the room on her left hand as she 
called down the stair. Into that on her right Miss Horn now re- 
entered, to rejoin Mrs Mellis, the wife of the principal draper in 
the town, who had called ostensibly to condole with her, but really 
to see the corpse. 

“ Aih 1 she was taen yoong!” sighed the visitor, with long- 
drawn tones and a shake of the head, implying that therein lay 
ground of complaint, at which poor mortals dared but hint. 

“No that yoong,” returned Miss Horn. “ She was upo’ the 
edge o’ aucht an’ thirty.” 

“ Weel, she had a sair time o’ ’t” 

“No that sair, sae far as I see— -an’ wha sud ken better? She’s 


2 


MALCOLM , 


had a bien do on-si ttin’ ( sheltered quarters ), and sud hae had as 
lang’s I was to the fore. Na, na ; it was nowther sae young nor 
yet sae sair.” 

“ Aih ! but she was a patient cratur wi’ a’ flesh, ” persisted Mrs 
Mellis, as if she would not willingly be foiled in the attempt to 
extort for the dead some syllable of acknowledgment from the 
lips of her late companion. 

“ ’Deed she was that ! — a wheen ower patient wi’ some. But that 
cam’ o’ haein mair hert nor brains. She had feelin’s gien ye like 
— and to spare. But I never took ower ony o’ the stock. It’s 
a pity she hadna the jeedgment to match, for she never mis- 
doobted onybody eneuch. But I wat it disna maitter noo, for 
she’s gane whaur it’s less wantit. For ane ’at has the hairmless- 
ness o’ the doo i’ this ill-wulled warl’, there’s a feck o’ ten ’at has 
the wisdom o’ the serpent. An’ the serpents mak sair wark wi’ 
the doos — lat alane them ’at flees into the verra mou’s o’ them.” 

“ Weel, ye’re jist richt there,” said Mrs Mellis. “ An’ as ye say, 
she was aye some easy to perswaud. I hae nae doubt she believed 
to the verra last he wad come back and mairry her.” 

“ Come back and mairry her ! Wha or what div ye mean ? I 
jist tell ye Mistress Mellis — an’ it’s weel ye’re named — gien ye 
daur to hint at ae word o’ sic clavers, it’s this side o’ this door o’ 
mine ye’s be less acquant wi’.” 

As she spoke, the hawk-eyes of Miss Horn glowed on each side 
of her hawk nose, which grew more and more hooked as she 
glared, while her neck went craning forward as if she were on the 
point of making a swoop on the offender. Mrs Mellis’s voice 
trembled with something like fear as she replied : 

“ Gude guide ’s, Miss Horn ! What hae I said to gar ye look 
at me sae by ordinar ’s that?” 

“ Said !” repeated Miss Horn, in a tone that revealed both 
annoyance with herself and contempt for her visitor. “ There’s 
no a claver in a’ the countryside but ye maun fess ’t hame aneth 
yer oxter, as gin ’t were the prodigal afore he repentit Ye’s get 
sma’ thanks for sic like here. An’ her lyin’ there as she’ll lie till 
the jeedgment-day, puir thing !” 

“ I’m sure I meant no offence, Miss Hom, ; * said her visitor. 
“ I thocht a’ body kent ’at she was ill about him.” 

“ Aboot wha, i’ the name o’ the father o’ lees?” 

“ Ow, aboot that lang-leggit doctor ’at set oot for the Ingies, an* 
dee’d afore he wan across the equautor. Only fouk said he was 
nae mair deid nor a halvert worm, an’ wad be hame whan she 
was merried.” 

“ It ’s a’ lees frae heid to fut, an’ frae hert to skin.” 


BARBARA CATANACII. 


3 


M Weel, it was plain to see she dwyned awa efter he gaed, an’ 
never was hersel’ again — ye dinna deny that?” 

“ It’s a’ havers,” persisted Miss Horn, but in accents consider- 
ably softened. “ She cared na mair aboot the chield nor I did 
mysel’. She dwyned, I grant ye, an’ he gaed awa, I grant ye , 
but the win’ blaws an’ the water rins, an’ the tane has little to du 
wi’ the tither. 

“ Weel, weel ; I’m sorry I said onything to often’ ye, an’ I canna 
say mair. Wi’ yer leave, Miss Horn, I’ll jist gang an’ tak’ a last 
leuk at her, puir thing !” 

“ ’Deed, ye s’ du naething o’ the kin’ ! I s’ lat nobody glower 
at her ’at wad gang an spairge sic havers about her, Mistress 
Mellis. To say ’at sic a doo as my Grizel, puir, saft-hertit, win- 
some thing, wad hae lookit twice at ony sic a serpent as him ! 
Na, na, mem ! Gang yer wa’s hame, an’ come back straucht frae 
yer prayers the morn’s mornin’. By that time she’ll be quaiet in 
her coffin, an’ I’ll be quaiet i’ my temper. Syne I’ll lat ye see 
her — maybe. — I wiss I was weel rid o’ the sicht o’ her, for I 
canna bide it Lord, I canna bide it” 

These last words were uttered in a murmured aside, inaudible 
to Mrs Mellis, to whom, however, they did not apply, but to the 
dead body. She rose notwithstanding in considerable displeasure, 
and with a formal farewell walked from the room, casting a curious 
glance as she left it in the direction of that where the body lay, 
and descended the stairs as slowly as if on every step she deliber- 
ated whether the next would bear her weight. Miss Horn, who 
had followed her to the head of the stair, watched her out of 
sight below the landing, when she turned and walked back once 
more into the parlour, but with a lingering look towards the 
opposite room, as if she saw through the closed door what lay 
white on the white bed. 

“ It’s a God’s mercy I hae no feelin’s,” she said to herself. “ To 
even {equal) my bonny Grizel to sic a lang kyte-clung chiel as yon 1 
Aih, puir Grizel I She’s gane frae me like a knotless threid.” 


CHAPTER II. 

BARBARA CATANACH. 

Miss Horn was interrupted by the sound of the latch of the 
street door, and sprung from her chair in anger. 

“ Canna they lat her sleep for five meenutes ? ” she cried 


4 


MALCOLM. 


aloud, forgetting that there was no fear of rousing her any more. 
— “ It’ll be Jean come in frae the pump,” she reflected, after a 
moment’s pause ; but, hearing no footstep along the passage to 
the kitchen, concluded — “ It’s no her, for she gangs aboot the 
hoose like the fore half o’ a new-shod cowt and went down the 
stair to see who might have thus presumed to enter unbidden. 

In the kitchen, the floor of which was as white as scrubbing 
could make it, and sprinkled with sea-sand — under the gaily- 
painted Dutch clock, which went on ticking as loud as ever, 
though just below the dead — sat a woman about sixty years of 
age, whose plump face to the first glance looked kindly, to the 
second, cunning, and to the third, evil. To the last look the 
plumpness appeared unhealthy, suggesting a doughty indentation 
to the finger, and its colour also was pasty. Her deep-set, black- 
bright eyes, glowing from under the darkest of eye-brows, which 
met over her nose, had something of a fascinating influence — so 
much of it that at a first interview one was not likely for a time 
to notice any other of her features. She rose as Miss Horn 
entered, buried a fat fist in a soft side, and stood silent 

“ Weel ? ” said Miss Horn interrogatively, and was silent also. 

“I thocht ye micht want a cast o’ my callin’, ” said the woman. 

“ Na, na ; there’s no a han’ ’at s’ lay finger upo’ the bairn but 
mine ain,” said Miss Horn. “ I had it a’ ower, my lee lane, 
afore the skreigh o’ day. She’s lyin’ quaiet noo — verra quaiet — 
waitin’ upo’ Watty Witherspail. Whan he fesses hame her bit 
boxie, we s’ hae her laid canny intill ’t, an’ hae dune wi’ ’t” 

“ Weel, mem, for a leddy-born, like yersel’, I maun say, ye 
tak it unco composed ! ” 

“ I’m no awaur, Mistress Catanach, o’ ony necessity laid upo* 
ye to say yer min’ i’ this hoose. It’s no expeckit But what for 
sud I no tak’ it wi’ composur’ ? We’ll hae to tak’ oor ain turn 
er lang, as composed as we hae the skiel o’, and gang oot like a 
lang-nibbit can’le — ay, an lea’ jist sic a memory ahin’ some o’ ’s, 
Bawby.” 

“ I kenna gien ye mean me, Miss Horn,” said the woman ; 
“ but it’s no that muckle o’ a memory I expec’ to lea’ ahin’ me.” 

“ The less the better,” muttered Miss Horn ; but her unwel- 
come visitor went on : 

“ Them ’at ’s maist i’ my debt kens least aboot it ; and their 
mithers canna be said to hae muckle to be thankfu’ for. It’s 
God’s trowth, I ken waur nor ever I did , mem. A body in my 
trade canna help fa’in’ amo’ ill company whiles, for we’re a’ born 
in sin, an’ brocht furth in ineequity, as the Buik says ; in fac’, it’s 
a’ sin thegither : we come o’ sin an’ we gang for sin ; but ye ken 


BARBARA CAT AN AC IT. 


5 


the likes o* me maunna clype (tell tales). A ’ the same, gien ye 
dinna tak the help o’ my han’, ye winna refuse me the sicht o’ 
my een, puir thing ! ” 

“ There’s nane sail luik upon her deid ’at wasna a pleesur’ till 
her livin’ ; an’ ye ken weel eneuch, Bawby, she cudna thole (bear) 
the sicht o ’you.” 

“ An’ guid rizzon had she for that, gien a’ ’at gangs throu’ my 
heid er I fa’ asleep i’ the lang mirk nichts be a hair better nor 
ane o’ the auld wives’ fables ’at fowk says the holy buik maks 
sae licht o’ ! ” 

“ What mean ye ? ” demanded Miss Horn, sternly and curtly. 

“ I ken what I mean mysel’, an’ ane that’s no content wi’ that, 
bude (behoved) ill be a howdie (midwife). I wad fain hae gotten 
a fancy oot o’ my heid that’s been there this mony a lang day ; 
but please yersel’, mem, gien ye winna be neebourly.” 

“Ye s’ no gang near her — no to save ye frae a’ the ill dreams 
that ever gethered aboot a sin-stappit (stuffed) bowster ! ” cried 
Miss Horn, and drew down her long upper lip in a strong 
arch. 

“ Ca cannie ! ca canniel (drive gently) f said Bawby. “ Dinna 
anger me ower sair, for I am but mortal. Fowk tak a heap frae 
you, Miss Horn, ’at they’ll tak frae nane ither, for your 'temper’s 
weel kent, an’ little made o’ ; but it’s an ill-faured thing to anger 
the howdie — sae muckle lies upo’ her; an, I’m no i’ the tune to 
put up wi’ muckle the nicht. I wonner at ye bein’ sae oonneebour- 
like — at sic a time tu, wi’ a corp i’ the hoose ! ” 

“ Gang awa — gan oot o’t : it’s my hoose,” said Miss Horn, in 
a low, hoarse voice, restrained from rising to tempest pitch only 
by the consciousness of what lay on the other side of the ceiling 
above her head. “ I wad as sune lat a cat intill the deid-chaumer 
to gang loupin’ ower the corp, or may be waur, as I wad lat 
yersel’ intill ’t Bawby Catanach ; an’ there’s till ye ! ” 

At this moment the opportune entrance of Jean afforded 
fitting occasion to her mistress for leaving the room without 
encountering the dilemma of either turning the woman out — a 
proceeding which the latter, from the way in which she set her 
short, stout figure square on the floor, appeared ready to resist — 
or of herself abandoning the field in discomfiture : she turned 
and marched from the kitchen with her head in the air, and the 
gait of one who had been insulted on her own premises. 

She was sitting in the parlour, still red-faced and wrathful, 
when J ean entered, and, closing the door behind her, drew near 
to her mistress, bearing a narrative, commenced at the door, of 
all she had seen, heard, and done, while “ oot an’ aboot i’ the 


6 MALCOLM . 

toon.” But Miss Horn interrupted her the moment she began 
to speak 

“ Is that wuman furth the hoose, Jean ? * she asked, in the 
tone of one who waited her answer in the affirmative as a pre- 
liminary condition of all further conversation. 

“ She’s gane, mem,” answered Jean— adding to herself in a 
wordless thought, “ I’m no sayin’ whaur.” 

“ She’s a wuman I wadna hae ye throng wi’, Jean/' 

“ I ken no ill o’ her, mem,” returned Jean. 

“ She’s eneuch to corrup’ a kirkyaird I ” said her mistress, with 
more force than fitness. 

Jean, however, was on the shady side of fifty, more likely to 
have already yielded than to be liable to a first assault of corruption; 
and little did Miss Horn think how useless was her warning, or 
where Barbara Catanach was at that very moment Trusting to 
Jean’s cunning, as well she might, she was in the dead-chamber, 
and standing over the dead. She had folded back the sheet — • 
not from the face, but from the feet — and raised the night dress 
of fine linen in which the love of her cousin had robed the dead 
for the repose of the tomb. 

“ It wad hae been tellin’ her,” she muttered, “ to hae spoken 
Bawby fair ! I’m no used to be fa’en foul o’ that gait I ’s be 
even wi’ her yet, I’m thinkin’ — the auld speldin’ ! Losh ! and 
Praise be thankit ! there it’s ! It’s there ! — a wee darker, but the 
same — jist whaur I could ha’ laid the pint o’ my finger upo’t i* 
the mirk! — Noo lat the worms eat it,” she concluded, as she 
folded down the linen of shroud and sheet — “an’ no mortal 
ken o’ ’t but mysel’ an’ him ’at bude till hae seen ’t, gien he 
was a hair better nor Glenkindie’s man i’ the auld ballant ! ” 

The instant she had re-arranged the garments of the dead, she 
turned and made for the door with a softness of step that strangely 
contrasted with the ponderousness of her figure, and indicated 
great muscular strength, opened it with noiseless circumspection 
to the width of an inch, peeped out from the crack, and seeing 
the opposite door still shut, stepped out with a swift, noiseless 
swing of person and door simultaneously, closed the door behind 
her, stole down the stairs, and left the house. Not a board creaked, 
not a latch clicked as she went. She stepped into the street as 
sedately as if she had come from paying to the dead the last 
offices of her composite calling, the projected front of her person 
appearing itself aware of its dignity as the visible sign and symbol 
of a good conscience and kindly heart. 


THE MAD LAIRD, 


7 


CHAPTER IIL 

THE MAD LAIRD. 

When Mistress Catanach arrived at the opening of a street which 
was just opposite her own door, and led steep toward the sea- 
town, she stood, and shading her eyes with her hooded hand, 
although the sun was far behind her, looked out to sea. It was 
the forenoon of a day of early summer. The larks were many 
and loud in the skies above her — for, although she stood in a 
street, she was only a few yards from the green fields — but she 
could hardly have heard them, for their music was not for her. 
To the northward, whither her gaze — if gaze it could be called 
— was directed, all but cloudless blue heavens stretched over an 
all but shadowless blue sea ; two bold, jagged promontories, one 
on each side of her, formed a wide bay ; between that on the 
west and the sea-town at her feet, lay a great curve of yellow 
sand, upon which the long breakers, born of last night’s wind, 
were still roaring from the north-east, although the gale had now 
sunk to a breeze — cold and of doubtful influence. From the 
chimneys of the fishermen’s houses below, ascended a yellowish 
smoke, which, against the blue of the sea, assumed a dull green 
colour as it drifted vanishing towards the south-west. But Mrs 
Catanach was looking neither at nor for anything : she had no 
fisherman husband, or any other relative at sea ; she was but 
revolving something in her unwholesome mind, and this was her 
mode of concealing an operation which naturally would have 
been performed with down-bent head and eyes on the ground. 

While she thus stood a strange figure drew near, approaching 
her with step almost as nois^ss as that with which she had 
herself made her escape from Miss Horn’s house. At a few 
yards’ distance from her it stood, and gazed up at her counte- 
nance as intently as she seemed to be gazing on the sea. It was 
a man of dwarfish height and uncertain age, with a huge hump 
upon his back, features of great refinement, a long thin beard, 
and a forehead unnaturally large, over eyes which, although of a 
pale blue, mingled with a certain mottled milky gleam, had a 
pathetic, dog-like expression. Decently dressed in black, he 
stood with his hands in the pockets of his trowsers, gazing im- 
movably in Mrs Catanach’s face. 

Becoming suddenly aware of his presence, she glanced down- 


8 'MALCOLM* 

ward, gave a great start and a half scream, and exclaimed in no 

gentle tones : 

“ Preserve ’s ! Whaur come ye frae ? ” 

It was neither that she did not know the man, nor that she 
meant any offence : her words were the mere embodiment of the 
annoyance of startled surprise ; but their effect was peculiar. 

Without a single other motion he turned abruptly on one heel, 
gazed seaward with quick-flushed cheeks and glowing eyes, but, 
apparently too polite to refuse an answer to the evidently un- 
pleasant question, replied in low, almost sullen tones : 

“ I dinna ken whaur T come frae. Ye ken ’at I dinna ken 
whaur I come frae. I dinna ken whaur ye come frae. I dinna 
ken whaur onybody comes frae.” 

“ Hoot, laird ! nae offence 1 ” returned Mrs Catanach. “ II 
was yer ain wyte {blame). What gart ye stan’ glowerin’ at a body 
that gait, ohn telled {without telling) them ’at ye was there ? ” 

" I thocht ye was luikin’ whaur ye cam frae,’’ returned the man 
in tones apologetic and hesitating. 

“ ’Deed I fash wi’ nae sic freits,” said Mrs Catanach. 

“ Sae lang’s ye ken whaur ye’re gaein’ till,” suggested the mam 

“ Toots ! I fash as little wi’ that either, and ken jist as muckle 
about the tane as the tither,” she answered with a low oily 
guttural laugh of contemptuous pity. 

“ I ken mair nor that mysel’, but no muckle,” said the man. 
“ I dinna ken whaur I cam frae, and I dinna ken whaur I’m gaun 
till ; but I ken ’at I’m gaun whaur I cam frae. That stan’s to 
rizzon, ye see ; but they telled me ’at ye kenned a’ about whaur 
we a’ cam frae.” 

“ Deil a bit o’ ’t ! ” persisted Mrs Catanach, in tones of re- 
pudiation. “ What care I whaur I cam frae, sae lang’s — ” 

“ Sae lang’s what, gien ye please ? ” pleaded the man, with a 
childlike entreaty in his voice. 

“ Weel gien ye wull hae’t — sae lang’s I cam frae my 

mither,” said the woman, looking down on the inquirer with a 
vulgar laugh. 

The hunchback uttered a shriek of dismay, and turned and 
fled ; and as he turned, long, thin, white hands flashed out of 
his pockets, pressed against his ears, and intertwined their fingers 
at the back of his neck. With a marvellous swiftness he shot 
down the steep descent towards the shore. 

“ The deil’s in’t ’at I bude to anger him ! ” said the woman, 
and walked away, with a short laugh of small satisfaction. 

The style she had given the hunchback was no nickname. 
Stephen Stewart was laird of the small property and ancient 


THE MAD LAIRD. 


9 


house of Kirkbyres, of which his mother managed the affairs — 
hardly for her son, seeing that, beyond his clothes, and five 
pounds a year of pocket-money, he derived no personal advan- 
tage from his possessions. He never went near his own house, 
for, from some unknown reason, plentifully aimed at in the dark 
by the neighbours, he had such a dislike to his mother that he 
could not bear to hear the name of mother, or even the slightest 
allusion to the relationship. 

Some said he was a fool ; others a madman ; some both ; 
none, however, said he was a rogue ; and all would have been 
willing to allow that whatever it might be that caused the differ- 
ence between him and other men, throughout the disturbing 
element blew ever and anon the air of a sweet humanity. 

Along the shore, in the direction of the great rocky pro- 
montory that closed in the bay on the west, with his hands still 
clasped over his ears, as if the awful word were following him, 
he flew rather than fled. It was nearly low water, and the wet 
sand afforded an easy road to his flying feet. Betwixt sea and 
shore, a sail in the offing the sole other moving thing in the 
solitary landscape, like a hunted creature he sped, his footsteps 
melting and vanishing behind him in the half-quick sand. 

Where the curve of the water-line turned northward at the root 
of the promontory, six or eight fishing boats were drawn up on 
the beach in various stages of existence. One was little more 
than half built, the fresh wood shining against the background 
of dark rock. Another was newly tarred; its sides glistened 
with the rich shadowy brown, and filled the air with a comfort- 
able odour. Another wore age-long neglect on every plank and 
seam ; half its props had sunk or decayed, and the huge 
hollow leaned low on one side, disclosing the squalid desolation 
of its lean-ribbed and naked interior, producing all the phantas- 
mic effect of a great swampy desert ; old pools of water over- 
grown with a green scum, lay in the hollows between its rotting 
timbers, and the upper planks were baking and cracking in the 
sun. Near where they lay a steep path ascended the cliff, whence 
through grass and ploughed land, it led across the promontory 
to the fishing village of Scaurnose, which lay on the other side 
of it. There the mad laird, or Mad Humpy, as he was called 
by the baser sort, often received shelter, chiefly from the family 
of a certain Joseph Mair, one of the most respectable inhabit- 
ants of the place. 

But the way he now pursued lay close under the cliffs of the 
headland, and was rocky and difficult. He passed the boats, 
going between them and the cliffs, at a footpace, with his eye? 


IO MALCOLM. 

on the ground, and not even a glance at the two men who were 
at work on the unfinished boat. One of them was his friend, 
Joseph Mair. They ceased their work for a moment to look 
after him. 

“That’s the puir laird again,” said Joseph, the instant he was 
beyond hearing. “ Something’s wrang wi’ him. I wonder what’s 
come ower him ! ” 

“ I haena seen him for a while noo,” returned the other. 
“ They tell me ’at his mither made him ower to the deil afore he 
cam to the light ; and sae, aye as his birthday comes roun’, 
Sawtan geis the pooer ower him. Eh, but he’s a fearsome sicht 
whan he’s ta’en that gait !’’ continued the speaker. “ I met him 
ance i’ the gloamin’, jist ower by the toon, wi’ his een glowerin' 
like uily lamps, an’ the slaver rinnin’ doon his lang baird. I 
jist laup as gien I had seen the muckle Sawtan himsel’.” 

“Ye nott na {needed not) hae dune that,” was the reply. 
“ H e’s jist as hairmless, e’en at the warst, as ony lamb. He’s 
but a puir cratur wha’s tribble’s ower strang for him — that’s a’. 
Sawtan has as little to du wi’ him as wi’ ony man I ken.” 


CHAPTER IV, 

PHEMY MAIR. 

With eyes that stared as if they and not her ears were the 
organs of hearing, this talk was heard by a child of about ten 
years of age, who sat in the bottom of the ruined boat, like a 
pearl in a decaying oyster-shell, one hand arrested in the act of 
dabbling in a green pool, the other on its way to her lips with a 
mouthful of the sea-weed called dulse. She was the daughter of 
Joseph Mair just mentioned — a fisherman who had been to sea 
in a man-of-war (in consequence of which his to-name or nick- 
name was Blue Peter), where having been found capable, he was 
employed as carpenter’s mate, and came to be very handy with 
his tools : having saved a little money by serving in another man’s 
boat, he was now building one for himself. 

He was a dark-complexioned, foreign-looking man, with gold 
rings in his ears, which he said enabled him to look through the 
wind “ ohn his een watered.” Unlike most of his fellows, he was 
a sober and indeed thoughtful man, ready to listen to the voice 
of reason from any quarter ; they were, in general, men of hardi- 


PHEMY MAIR , 


ii 


hood and courage, encountering as a mere matter of course such 
perilous weather as the fishers on a great part of our coasts would 
have declined to meet, and during the fishing season were dili- 
gent in their calling, and made a good deal of money ; but when 
the weather was such that they could not go to sea, when their 
nets were in order, and nothing special requiring to be done, they 
would have bouts of hard drinking, and spend a great portion of 
what ought to have been their provision for the winter. 

Their women were in general coarse in manners and rude in 
speech ; often of great strength and courage, and of strongly- 
marked character. They were almost invariably the daughters of 
fishermen, for a wife taken from among the rural population would 
have been all but useless in regard of the peculiar duties required of 
her. If these were less dangerous than those of their husbands, 
they were quite as laborious, and less interesting. The most 
severe consisted in carrying the fish into the country for sale, in a 
huge creel or basket, which when full was sometimes more than 
a man could lift to place on the woman’s back. With this burden, 
kept in its place by a band across her chest, she would walk as 
many as twenty miles, arriving at some inland town early in the 
forenoon, in time to dispose of her fish for the requirements of 
the day. I may add that, although her eldest child was probably 
born within a few weeks after her marriage, infidelity was almost 
unknown amongst them. 

In some respects, although in none of its good qualities, Mrs. 
Mair was an exception from her class. Her mother had been the 
daughter of a small farmer, and she had well-to-do relations in an 
inland parish ; but how much these facts were concerned in the 
result it would be hard to say : certainly she was one of those 
elect whom Nature sends into the world for the softening and 
elevation of her other children. She was still slight and graceful, 
with a clear complexion, and the prettiest teeth possible ; the 
former two at least of which advantages she must have lost long 
before, had it not been that, while her husband’s prudence had 
rendered hard work less imperative, he had a singular care over 
her good looks ; and that a rough, honest, elder sister of his lived 
with them, whom it would have been no kindness to keep from 
the hardest work, seeing it was only through such that she could 
have found a sufficiency of healthy interest in life. While Janet 
Mair carried the creel, Annie only assisted in making the nets, 
and in cleaning and drying the fish, of which they cured con- 
siderable quantities; these, with her household and maternal 
duties, afforded her ample occupation. Their children were well- 
trained, and being of necessity, from the narrowness of their 


12 


MALCOLM. 


house-accommodation, a great deal with their parents, heard 
enough to make them think after their faculty. 

The mad laird was, as I have said, a visitor at their house oftener 
than anywhere else. On such occasions he slept in a garret 
accessible by a ladder from the ground floor, which consisted only 
of a kitchen and a closet Little Phemy Mair was therefore 
familiar with his appearance, his ways, and his speech ; and she 
was a favourite with him, although hitherto his shyness had been 
sufficient to prevent any approach to intimacy with even a child 
of ten. 

When the poor fellow had got some little distance beyond the 
boats, he stopped and withdrew his hands from his ears : in 
rushed the sound of the sea, the louder that the caverns of his 
brain had been so long closed to its entrance. With a moan of 
dismay he once more pressed his palms against them, and thus 
deafened, shouted with a voice of agony into the noise of the 
rising tide : “ I dinna ken whaur I come frae !” after which cry, 
wrung from the grief of human ignorance, he once more took to 
his heels, though with far less swiftness than before, and fled 
stumbling and scrambling over the rocks. 

Scarcely had he vanished from view of the boats, when Phemy 
scrambled out of her big mussell-shell. Its upheaved side being 
toward the boat at which her father was at work, she escaped un- 
perceived, and so van along the base of the promontory, where 
the rough way was perhaps easier to the feet of a child content to 
take smaller steps and climb or descend by the help of more 
insignificant inequalities. She came within sight of the laird just 
as he turned into the mouth of a well-known cave and vanished. 

Phemy was one of those rare and blessed natures which have 
endless courage because they have no distrust, and she ran straight 
into the cave after him, without even first stopping to look in. 

It was not a very interesting cave to look into. The strata of 
which it was composed, upheaved almost to the perpendicular, 
shaped an opening like the half of a Gothic arch divided vertically 
and leaning over a little to one side, which opening rose to the 
full height of the cave, and seemed to lay bare every corner of it 
to a single glance. In length it was only about four or five times 
its width. The floor was smooth and dry, consisting of hard rock. 
The walls and roof were jagged with projections and shadowed 
with recesses, but there was little to rouse any frightful fancies. 

When Phemy entered, the laird was nowhere to be seen. But 
she went straight to the back of the cave, to its farthest visible 
point. There she rounded a projection and began an ascent 
which only familiarity with rocky ways could have enabled such a 


PHEMY MATE. 


13 


child to accomplish. At the top she passed through another 
opening, and by a longer and more gently sloping descent reached 
the floor of a second cave, as level and nearly as smooth as a 
table. On her left hand, what light managed to creep through 
the tortuous entrance was caught and reflected in a dull glimmer 
from the undefined surface of a well of fresh water which lay in a 
sort of basin in the rock : on a bedded stone beside it sat the laird, 
with his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees, and his hump 
upheaved above his head, like Mount Sinai over the head of 
Christian in the Pilgrim’s Progress. 

As his hands were still pressed on his ears, he heard nothing 
of Phemy’s approach, and she stood for a while staring at him in 
the vague glimmer, apparently with no anxiety as to what was to 
come next. 

Weary at length — for the forlorn man continued movelessly 
sunk in his own thoughts, or what he had for such — the eyes of 
the child began to wander about the darkness, to which they had 
already got so far accustomed as to make the most of the scanty 
light. Presently she fancied she saw something glitter, away in 
the darkness — two things : they must be eyes ! — the eyes of an 
otter or of a pole-cat, in which creatures the caves along the shore 
abounded. Seized with sudden fright, she ran to the laird and 
laid her hand on his shoulder, crying, 

“ Leuk, laird, leuk ! ” 

He started to his feet and gazed bewildered at the child, 
rubbing his eyes once and again. She stood between the well 
and the entrance, so that all the light there was, gathered upon 
her pale face. 

“ Whaur do ye come frae ? ” he cried. 

“ I cam frae the auld boat,” she answered. 

“What do ye want wi’ me?” 

“ Naething, sir ; I only cam to see hoo ye was gettin’ on. I 
wadna hae disturbit ye, sir, but I saw the twa een o’ a wullcat, or 
sic like, glowerin ’ awa yonner i’ the mirk, an’ they fleyt me ’at I 
grippit ye.” 

“ Weel, weel ; sit ye doon, bairnie,” said the mad laird in a 
soothing voice; “the wullcat sanna touch ye. Ye’re no fleyt at 
me, are ye ? ” 

“ Eh, na ! ” answered the child. “ What for sud I be fleyt at 
you, sir? Pm Phemy Mair.” 

“Eh, bairnie ! it’s you, is’t?” he returned in tones of satisfaction, 
for he had not hitherto recognised her. “Sit ye doon, sit ye 
doon, an’ we’ll see about it a’.” 

Phemy obeyed, and seated herself on the nearest projection. 


14 


MALCOLM. 


The laird placed himself beside her, and once more buried his 
face, but not his ears, in his hands. Nothing entered them, how- 
ever, but the sound of the rising tide, for Phemy sat by him in the 
faintly glimmering dusk, as without fear felt, so without word 
spoken. 

The evening crept on, and the night came down, but all the 
effect of the growing darkness was that the child drew gradually 
nearer to her uncouth companion, until at length her hand stole 
into his, her head sank upon his shoulder, his arm went round 
her to hold her safe, and thus she fell fast asleep. After a while, 
the laird gently roused her and took her home, on their way 
warning her, in strange yet to her comprehensible utterance, to 
say nothing of where she had found him, for if she exposed his 
place of refuge, wicked people would take him, and he should 
never see her again. 


CHAPTER V. 

LADY FLORIMEL. 

All the coast to the east of the little harbour was rock, bold and 
high, of a grey and brown hard stone, which after a mighty sweep, 
shot out northward, and closed in the bay on that side with a 
second great promontory. The long curved strip of sand on the 
west, reaching to the promontory of Scaurnose, was the only open 
portion of the coast for miles. Here the coasting vessel gliding 
past gained a pleasant peep of open fields, belts of wood and farm- 
houses, with now and then a glimpse of a great house amidst its 
trees. In the distance one or two bare solitary hills, imposing in 
aspect only from their desolation, for their form gave no effect to 
their altitude, rose to the height of over a thousand feet. 

On this comparatively level part of the shore, parallel with its 
line, and at some distance beyond the usual high-water-mark, the 
waves of ten thousand northern storms had cast up a long dune 
or bank of sand, terminating towards the west within a few yards 
of a huge solitary rock of the ugly kind called conglomerate, 
which must have been separated from the roots of the promontory 
by the rush of waters at unusually high hides, for in winter they 
still sometimes rounded the rock, and running down behind the 
dune, turned it into a long island. The sand on the inland side 
of the dune, covered with short sweet grass, browsed on by sheep, 
and with the largest and reddest of daisies, was thus occasionally 


LADY F LORI MEL. 


IS 


swept by wild salt waves, and at times, when the northern wind 
blew straight as an arrow and keen as a sword from the regions 
of endless snow, lay under a sheet of gleaming ice. 

The sun had been up for some time in a cloudless sky. The 
wind had changed to the south, and wafted soft country odours to 
the shore, in place of sweeping to inland farms the scents of sea- 
weed and broken salt waters, mingled with a suspicion of icebergs. 
From what was called the Seaton , or seatown, of Portlossie, a 
crowd of cottages occupied entirely by fisher-folk, a solitary figure 
was walking westward along this grass at the back of the dune, 
singing. On his left hand the ground rose to the high road ; on 
his right was the dune, interlaced and bound together by the long 
clasping roots of the coarse bent, without which its sands would 
have been but the sport of every wind that blew. It shut out 
from him all sight of the sea, but the moan and rush of the rising 
tide sounded close behind it At his back rose the town of 
Portlossie, high above the harbour and the Seaton, with its houses 
of grey and brown stone, roofed with blue slates and red tiles. It 
was no highland town — scarce one within it could speak the 
highland tongue, yet down from its high streets on the fitful air 
of the morning now floated intermittently the sound of bagpipes — 
borne winding from street to street, and loud blown to wake the 
sleeping inhabitants and let them know that it was now six of the 
clock. 

He was a youth of about twenty, with a long, swinging, heavy- 
footed stride, which took in the ground rapidly — a movement 
unlike that of the other men of the place, who always walked 
slowly, and never but on dire compulsion ran. He was rather 
tall, and large-limbed. His dress was like that of a fisherman, 
consisting of blue serge trowsers, a shirt striped blue and white, 
and a Guernsey frock, which he carried flung across his shoulder. 
On his head he wore a round blue bonnet, with a tuft of scarlet 
in the centre. 

His face was more than handsome — with large features, not 
finely cut, and a look of mingled nobility and ingenuousness — the 
latter amounting to simplicity, or even innocence ; while the clear 
outlook from his full and well-opened hazel eyes indicated both 
courage and promptitude. His dark brown hair came in large 
curling masses from under his bonnet. It was such a form and 
face as would have drawn every eye in a crowded thoroughfare. 

About the middle of the long sandhill, a sort of wide embrasure 
was cut in its top, in which stood an old-fashioned brass swivel- 
gun : when the lad reached the place, he sprung up the sloping 
side of the dune, seated himself on the gun, drew from his trowsers 


i6 


MALCOLM i 


a large silver watch, regarded it steadily for a few minutes, replaced 
it, and took from his pocket a flint and steel, wherewith he kindled 
a bit of touch-paper, which, rising, he applied to the vent of the 
swivel Followed a great roar. 

It echoes had nearly died away, when a startled little cry 
reached his keen ear, and looking along the shore to discover 
whence it came, he spied a woman on a low rock that ran a little 
way out into the water. She had half risen from a sitting posture, 
and apparently her cry was the result of the discovery that the 
rising tide had overreached and surrounded her. There was no 
danger whatever, but the girl might well shrink from plunging 
into the clear beryl depth in which swayed the sea-weed clothing 
the slippery slopes of the rock. He rushed from the sand-hill, 
crying, as he approached her, “ Dinna be in a hurry, mem ; bide 
till I come to ye,” and running straight into the water struggled 
through the deepening tide, the distance being short and the 
depth almost too shallow for swimming. In a moment he was 
by her side, scarcely saw the bare feet she had been bathing in 
the water, heeded as little the motion of the hand which waved 
him back, caught her in his arms like a baby, and had her safe on 
the shore ere she could utter a word ; nor did he stop until he had 
carried her to the slope of the sand-hill, where he set her gently 
down, and without a suspicion of the liberty he was taking, and 
filled only with a passion of service, was proceeding to dry her 
feet with the frock which he had dropped there as he ran to her 
assistance. 

“ Let me alone, pray,” cried the girl with a half-amused indig- 
nation, drawing back her feet and throwing down a book she 
carried that she might the better hide them with her skirt. But 
although she shrank from his devotion, she could neither mistake 
it nor help being pleased with his kindness. Probably she had 
never before been immediately indebted to such an ill-clad indi- 
vidual of the human race, but even in such a costume she could 
not fail to see he was a fine fellow. Nor was the impression dis- 
turbed when he opened his mouth and spoke in the broad dialect 
of the country, for she had no associations to cause her to misin- 
terpret its homeliness as vulgarity. 

“ Whaur’s yer stocking, mem ?” he said. 

“You gave me no time to bring them away, you caught me up 
so— rudely,” answered the girl half querulously, but in such lovely 
speech as had never before greeted his Scotish ears. 

Before the words were well beyond her lips he was already on 
his way back to the rock, running, as he walked, with great, 
heavy-footed strides. The abandoned shoes and stockings were 


LADY FLO RIM EL. 


17 


in imminent danger of being floated off by the rising water, but 
he dashed in, swam a few strokes, caught them up, waded back 
to the shore, and, leaving a wet track all the way behind him but 
carrying the rescued clothing at arm’s lengtli before him, rejoined 
their owner. Spreading his frock out before her, he laid the 
shoes and stockings upon it, and, observing that she continued 
to keep her feet hidden under the skirts of her dress, turned his 
back and stood. 

“ Why don’t you go away?” said the girl, venturing one set 
of toes from under their tent, but hesitating to proceed further in 
the business. 

Without word or turn of head he walked away. 

Either flattered by his absolute obedience, and persuaded that 
he was a true squire, or unwilling to forego what amusement she 
might gain from him, she drew in her half-issuing foot, and, cer- 
tainly urged in part by an inherent disposition to tease, spoke 
again. 

“ You’re not going away without thanking me?” she said. 

“What for, mem?” he returned simply, standing stock-still 
again with his back towards her. 

“ You needn’t stand so. You don’t think I would go on dress- 
ing while you remained in sight?” 

“ I was as guid’s awa’, mem,” he said, and turning a glowing 
face, looked at her for a moment, then cast his eyes on the 
ground. 

“ Tell me what you mean by not thanking me,” she insisted. 

“ They wad be dull thanks, mem, that war thankit afore I 
kenned what for.” 

“ For allowing you to carry me ashore, of course.” 

“ Be thankit, mem, wi’ a’ my hert. Will I gang doon o’ my 
k-nees?” 

“ No. Why should you go on your knees?” 

“ ’Cause ye’re ’maist ower bonny to luik at stan’in’, mem, an’ 
I’m feared for angerin’ ye.” 

“ Don’t say ma’am to me. 

“ What am I to say, than, mem ?— I ask yer pardon, mem.” 

“ Say my lady. That’s how people speak to me.” 

“ I thocht ye bude ( behoved ) to be somebody by ordinar’, my 
leddy ! That’ll be hoo ye’re so terrible bonny,” he returned, with 
some tremulousness in his tone. “ But ye maun put on yer hose, 
my leddy, or ye’ll get yer feet cauld, and that’s no guid for the 
likes o’ you.” 

The form of address she prescribed, conveyed to him no defi- 
nite idea of rank. It but added intensity to the notion of her 


i8 


MALCOLM. 


being a lady, as distinguished from one of the women of his own 
condition in life. 

“ And pray what is to become of you ,” she returned, “ with 
your clothes as wet as water can make them ?” 

“ The saut water kens me ower weel to do me ony ill,” re- 
turned the lad. “ I gang weet to the skin mony a day frae 
mornin’ till nicht, and mony a nicht frae nicht till mornin’ — at the 
heerin’ fishin’, ye ken, my leddy.” 

One might well be inclined to ask what could have tempted 
her to talk in such a familiar way to a creature like him — human 
indeed, but separated from her by a gulf more impassable far than 
that which divided her from the thrones, principalities, and powers 
of the upper regions ? And how is the fact to be accounted for, 
that here she put out a dainty foot, and reaching for one of her 
stockings, began to draw it gently over the said foot ? Either 
her sense of his inferiority was such that she regarded his presence 
no more than that of a dog, or, possibly, she was tempted to put 
his behaviour to the test. He, on his part, stood quietly regard- 
ing the operation, either that, with the instinct of an inborn 
refinement, he was aware he ought not to manifest more shame- 
facedness than the lady herself, or that he was hardly more 
accustomed to the sight of gleaming fish than the bare feet of 
maidens. 

“ I’m thinking my leddy,” he went on, in absolute simplicity, 
u that sma’ fut o’ yer ain has danced mony a braw dance on mony 
a braw flure.” 

“How old do you take me for then?” she rejoined, and 
went on drawing the garment over her foot by the shortest pos- 
sible stages. 

“ Ye’ll no be muckle ower twenty,” he said. 

“ I’m only sixteen,” she returned, laughing merrily. 

“ What will ye be or ye behaud ! ” he exclaimed, after a brief 
pause of astonishment. 

“ Do you ever dance in this part of the country ? ” she asked, 
heedless of his surprise. 

“ No that muckle, at least amo’ the fisher-fowks, excep’ it be 
at a weddin’. I was at ane last nicht.” 

“ And did you dance ? ” 

" Deed did I, my leddy. I danced the maist o’ the lasses clean 
aff o’ their legs.” 

“ What made you so cruel? ” 

“ Weel, ye see, mem, — I mean my leddy,— fowk said I was 
ill aboot the bride ; an’ sae I bude to dance ’t oot o’ their 
heids.” 


LADY FLO RIM EL. 


*9 

u And how much truth was there in what they said ?” she asked, 
with a sly glance up in the handsome, now glowing face. 

“ Gien there was ony, there was unco little, ” he replied. “ The 
chield’s walcome till her for me. But she was the bonniest lassie 
we had. — It was what we ca’ a penny weddin’,” he went on, as if 
willing to change the side of the subject. 

“ And what’s a penny wedding?” 

“ It’s a’ kin’ o’ a custom amo’ the fishers. There’s some gey 
puir fowk amon’ ’s, ye see, an’ when a twa o’ them merries, the 
lave o’ ’s wants to gie them a bit o’ a start like. Sae we a’ gang 
to the weddin’ an’ eats an’ drinks plenty, an’ pays for a’ ’at we 
hae ; and they mak’ a guid profit out o’ ’t, for the things doesna 
cost them nearhan’ sae muckle as we pay. So they hae a guid 
han’fu’ ower for the plenishin’.” 

‘‘And what do they give you to eat and drink?” asked the 
girl, making talk. 

“ Ow, skate an’ mustard to eat, an’ whusky to drink,” answered 
the lad, laughing. “ But it’s mair for the fun. I dinna care 
muckle about whusky an’ that kin’ o’ thing myseP. It’s the fiddles 
an’ the dancin’ ’at I like.” 

“ You have music, then?” 

“ Ay ; jist the fiddles an’ the pipes." 

“ The bagpipes, do you mean?” 

“ Ay ; my gran ’father plays them? 

“ But you’re not in the Highlands here : how come you to 
have bagpipes?” 

“ It’s a stray bag, an’ no more. But the fowk here like? the cry 
o’ ’t well eneuch, an’ hae ’t to wauk them ilka mornin’. Yon was 
my gran’father ye heard afore I fired the gun. Yon was his pipes 
waukin’ them, honest fowk.” 

“ And what made you fire the gun in that reckless way ? Don’t 
you know it is very dangerous?” 

“ Dangerous mem — my leddy, I mean ! There was naething 
intill 't but a pennyworth o’ blastin’ pooder. It wadna blaw the 
froth aff o’ the tap o’ a jaw {billow)? 

“ It nearly blew me out of my small wits, though.” 

“ I’m verra sorry it frichtit ye. But, gien I had seen ye, I bude 
to fire the gun.” 

“ I don’t understand you quite ; but I suppose you mean it 
was your business to fire the gun.” 

“ Jist that, my leddy.” 

“Why?” 

“ ’Cause it’s been decreet i’ the toon-cooncil that at sax o’ the 
clock ilka mornin’ that gun’s to be fired — at least sae lang’s my 


20 


MALCOLM. 


lord, the marquis, is at Portlossie Hoose. Ye see it’s a royal 
brugh, this, an’ it costs but aboot a penny, an’ it’s gran’ like to 
hae a sma’ cannon to fire. An’ gien I was to neglec’ it, my 
gran’father wad gang on skirlin’ — what’s the English for skirlin' , 
my leddy — skirlin’ o’ the pipes?” 

“ I don’t know. But from the sound of the word I should 
suppose it stands for screaming.” 

“ Aye, that’s it ; only screamm's no sae guid as skirlin'. My 
gran’father’s an auld man, as I was gaein’ on to say, an’ has hardly 
breath eneuch to fill the bag ; but he wad be efter dirkin’ ony- 
body ’at said sic a thing, and till he heard that gun he wad gang 
on blawin’ though he sud burst himsel.’ There’s naebody kens 
the smeddum in an auld hielan’man 1 ” 

By the time the conversation had reached this point, the lady 
had got her shoes on, had taken up her book from the sand, and 
was now sitting with it in her lap. No sound reached them but 
that of the tide, for the scream of the bagpipes had ceased the 
moment the swivel was fired. The sun was growing hot, and the 
sea, although so far in the cold north, was gorgeous in purple and 
green, suffused as with the overpowering pomp of a peacock’s 
plumage in the sun. Away to the left the solid promontory 
trembled against the horizon, as if ready to dissolve and vanish 
between the bright air and the lucid sea that fringed its base with 
white. The glow of a young summer morning pervaded earth 
and sea and sky, and swelled the heart of the youth as he stood 
in unconscious bewilderment before the self-possession of the girl, 
She was younger than he, and knew far less that was worth know- 
ing, yet had a world of advantage over him — not merely from the 
effect of her presence on one who had never seen anything half 
so beautiful, but from a certain readiness of surface thought, com- 
bined with the sweet polish of her speech, and an assurance of 
superiority which appeared to them both to lift her, like one of 
the old immortals, far above the level of the man whom she 
favoured with her passing converse. What in her words, as here 
presented only to the eye, may seem brusqueness or even forward- 
ness, was so tempered, so toned, so fashioned by the naivete with 
which she spoke, that it sounded in his ears as the utterance of 
absolute condescension. As to her personal appearance, the lad 
might well have taken her for twenty, for she looked more of a 
woman than, tall and strongly built as he was, he looked of a 
man. She was rather tall, rather slender, finely formed, with 
small hands and feet, and full throat. Her hair was of a dark 
brown ; her eyes of such a blue that no one could have suggested 
grey ; her complexion fair — a little freckled, which gave it the 


LADY FLO RIM EL. 


21 


warmest tint it had ; her nose nearly straight, her mouth rather 
large but well formed ; and her forehead, as much of it as was to 
be seen under a garden-hat, rose with promise above a pair of 
dark and finely-pencilled eyebrows. 

The description I have here given maybe regarded as occupying 
the space of a brief silence, during which the lad stood motionless, 
like one awaiting further command. 

“ Why don’t you go ? ” said the lady. “ I want to read my 
book.” 

He gave a great sigh, as if waking from a pleasant dream, took 
off his bonnet with a clumsy movement which yet had in it a 
grace worthy of a Stuart court, and descending the dune walked 
away along the sands to vards the sea-town. 

When he had gone about a couple of hundred yards, he looked 
back involuntarily. The lady had vanished. He concluded that 
she had crossed to the other side of the dune ; but when he had 
gone so far on his way to the village as to clear the eastern end 
of the sand-hill, and there turned and looked up its southern slope, 
she was still nowhere to be seen. The old highland stories of his 
grandfather came crowding to mind, and, altogether human as she 
had appeared, he almost doubted whether the sea, from which he 
had thought he rescued her, were not her native element. The 
book, however, not to mention the shoes and stockings, was 
against the supposition. Anyhow, he had seen a vision of some 
order or other, as certainly as if an angel from heaven had ap- 
peared to him, for the waters of his mind had been troubled with 
a new sense of grace and beauty, g’.ving an altogether fresh glory 
to existence. 

Of course no one would dream of falling in love with an un- 
earthly creatare, even an angel ; at least, something homely must 
mingle with the glory ere that become possible ; and as to this 
girl, the youth could scarcely have regarded her with a greater 
sense oifar-off-ness had he known her for the daughter of a king 
of the sea — one whose very element was essentially death to him 
as life to her. Still he walked home as if the heavy boots he were 
were wings at his heels, like those of the little Eurus or Boreas 
that stood blowing his trumpet for ever in the round open temple 
which from the top of a grassy hill in the park overlooked the 
Seaton. 

“ Sic een ! ” he kept saying to himself ; “ an’ sic sma’ white 
han’s ! an’ sic a bonny fut ! Eh ! hoo she wad glitter throu’ the 
water in a bag net ! Faith ! gien she war to sing * come doon ’ to 
me, I wad gang. Wad that be to lowse baith sowl an’ body, I 
wonner ? I’ll see what Maister Graham says to that. It’s a hne 


22 


MALCOLM. 


question to put till ’im : * Gien a body was to gang wi* a mermaid, 
wha they say has nae sowl to be saved, wad that be the loss o’ his 
sowl, as weel’s o’ the bodily life o’ ’m ? ’ ” 


CHAPTER VL 

DUNCAN MACPHAIL. 

The sea-town of Portlossie was as irregular a gathering of small 
cottages as could be found on the surface of the globe. They 
faced every way, turned their backs and gables every way — only 
of the roofs could you predict the position ; were divided from 
each other by every sort of small, irregular space and passage, and 
looked like a national assembly debating a constitution. Close 
behind the Seaton, as it was called, ran a highway, climbing far 
above the chimneys of the village to the level of the town above. 
Behind this road, and separated from it by a high wall of stone, 
lay a succession of heights and hollows covered with grass. In 
front of the cottages lay sand and sea. The place was cleaner 
than most fishing-villages, but so closely built, so thickly inhabited, 
and so pervaded with “ a very ancient and fish-like smell/’ that 
but for the besom of the salt north wind it must have been un- 
healthy. Eastward the houses could extend no further for the 
harbour, and westward no further for a small river that crossed 
the sands to find the sea — discursively and merrily at low water, 
but with sullen, submissive mingling when banked back by the 
tide. 

Avoiding the many nets extended long and wide on the grassy 
sands, the youth walked through the tide- swollen mouth of the 
river, and passed along the front of the village until he arrived at 
a house, the small window in the seaward gable of which was 
filled with a curious collection of things for sale — dusty-looking 
sweets in a glass bottle ; ginger-bread cakes in the shape of large 
hearts, thickly studded with sugar-plums of rainbow colours, in- 
vitingly poisonous ; strings of tin covers for tobacco-pipes, over- 
lapping each other like fish-scales ; toys, and tapes, and needles, 
and twenty other kinds of things, all huddled together. 

Turning the corner of this house, he went down tne narrow 
passage between it and the next, and in at its open door. Bui 
the moment it was entered it lost all appearance of a shop, and 
the room with the tempting window showed itself only as a poo* 
kitchen with an earthen floor. 


DUNCAN MACPHAIL. 


23 


“ Weel, hoo did the pipes behave themsels the day, dadd) ?” 
said the youth as he strode in. 

“ Och, she’ll pe peing a coot poy to-day,” returned the tremu- 
lous voice of a grey-headed old man, who was leaning over a 
small peat-fire on the hearth, sifting oatmeal through the fingers 
of his left hand into a pot, while he stirred the boiling mess with 
a short stick held in his right. 

It had grown to be understood between them that the pulmon- 
ary conditions of the old piper should be attributed not to his in- 
ternal, but his external lungs — namely, the bag of his pipes. 
Both sets had of late years manifested strong symptoms of decay, 
and decided measures had had to be again and again resorted to 
in the case of the latter to put off its evil day, and keep within it 
the breath of its musical existence. The youth’s question, then, 
as to the behaviour of the pipes, was in reality an inquiry after the 
condition of his grandfather’s lungs, which, for their part, grew 
yearly more and more asthmatic : notwithstanding which Duncan 
MacPhail would not hear of resigning the dignity of town-piper. 

“ That’s fine, daddy,” returned the youth. “ Wull I mak oot 
the parritch ? I’m thinkin ye’ve had eneuch o’ hingin’ ower the 
fire this het momin’.” 

“ No, sir,” answered Duncan. “ She’ll pe perfectly able to 
make ta parritch herself, my poy Malcolm. Ta tay will tawn 
when her poy must make his own parritch, an’ she’ll be wantin’ 
no more parritch, but haf to trink ta rainwater, and no trop of ta 
uisgebeatha to put into it, my poy Malcolm.” 

His grandson was quite accustomed to the old man’s heathenish 
mode of regarding his immediate existence after death as a long 
confinement in the grave, and generally had a word or two ready 
wherewith to combat the frightful notion ; but, as he spoke, 
Duncan lifted the pot from the fire, and set it on its three legs on 
the deal table in the middle of the room, adding : 

“ Tere, my man — tere’s ta parritch ! And was it ta putter, or 
ta traicle, or ta pottle o’ peer, she would be havin’ for kitchie tis 
fine momin’?” 

This point settled, the two sat down to eat their breakfast ; and 
no one would have discovered, from the manner in which the old 
man helped himself, nor yet from the look of his eyes, that he was 
stone blind. It came neither of old age nor disease — he had been 
born blind. His eyes, although large and wide, looked like those 
of a sleep-walker — open with shut sense ; the shine in them was 
all reflected light — glitter, no glow ; and their colour was so pale 
that they suggested some horrible sight as having driven from 
them hue and vision together. 


24 


MALCOLM. 


“ Haf you eated enough, my son ?” he said, when he heard 
Malcolm lay down his spoon. 

“ Ay, plenty, thank ye, daddy, and they were richt weel made, 5 * 
replied the lad, whose mode of speech was entirely different from 
his grandfather’s : the latter had learned English as a foreign 
language, but could not speak Scotch, his mother-tongue being 
Gaelic. 

As they rose from the table, a small girl, with hair wildly sug- 
gestive of insurrection and conflagration, entered, and said, in a 
loud screetch — 

“ Maister MacPhail, my mither wants a pot o’ bleckin’, an’ ye’re 
to be sure an’ gie her’t gweed, she says.” 

“Ferycoot, my chilt, Jeannie; but young Malcolm and old 
Tuncan hasn’t made teir prayers yet, and you know fery well tat 
she won’t sell pefore she’s made her prayers. Tell your mother 
tat she’ll pe bringin’ ta blackin’ when she comes to look to ta 
lamp.” 

The chiid ran off without response. Malcolm lifted the pot 
from the table and set it on the hearth ; put the plates together 
and the spoons, and set them on a chair, for there was no dresser; 
tilted the table, and wiped it hearthward — then from a shelf took 
down and laid upon it a bible, before which he seated himself with 
an air of reverence. The old man sat down on a low chair by 
the chimney corner, took off his bonnet, closed his eyes and 
murmured some almost inaudible words ; then repeated in Gaelic 
the first line of the hundred and third psalm — 

O m’ anam, beannuich thus’ a nis— 

and raised a tune of marvellous wail. Arrived at the end of the 
line, he repeated the process with the next, and so went on, giving 
every line first in the voice of speech and then in the voice of 
song, through three stanzas of eight lines each. And no less 
strange was the singing than the tune — wild and wailful as the 
wind of his native desolations, or as the sound of his own pipes 
borne thereon ; and apparently all but lawless, for the multitude 
of so-called grace-notes, hovering and fluttering endlessly around 
the centre tone like the comments on a text, rendered it nearly 
impossible to unravel from them the air even of a known tune. 
It had in its kind the same liquid uncertainty of confluent sound 
which had hitherto rendered it impossible for Malcolm to learn 
more than a few of the common phrases of his grandfather’s 
mother-tongue. 

The psalm over, during which the sightless eye-bails of the 
singer had been turned up towards the rafters of the cottage— a 


DUNCAN MACPHAIL. 


25 


sign surely that the germ of light, “ the sunny seed,” as Henry 
Vaughan calls it, must be in him, else why should he lift his eyes 
when he thought upward ? — Malcolm read a chapter cf the Bible, 
plainly the next in an ordered succession, for it could never have 
been chosen or culled ; after which they kneeled together, and the 
old man poured out a prayer, beginning in a low, scarcely audible 
voice, which rose at length to a loud, modulated chant. Not a 
sentence, hardly a phrase, of the utterance, did his grandson lay 
hold off ; but there were a few inhabitants of the place who could 
have interpreted it, and it was commonly believed that one part 
of his devotions was invariably a prolonged petition for vengeance 
on Campbell of Glenlyon, the main instrument in the massacre of 
Glenco. 

He could have prayed in English, and then his grandson might 
have joined in his petitions, but the thought of such a thing would 
never have presented itself to him. Nay, although, understanding 
both languages, he used that which was unintelligible to the lad, 
he yet regarded himself as the party who had the right to resent 
the consequent schism. Such a conversation as now followed was 
no new thing after prayers. 

“ I could fery well wish, Malcolm, my son,” said the old man, 
" tat you would be learnin’ to speak your own lancuach. It is all 
fery well for ta Sassenach ( Saxon , t'.e., non-Celtic) podies to read 
ta Piple in English, for it will be pleasing ta Maker not to make 
tem cawpable of ta Gaelic, no more tan monkeys ; but for all tat 
it’s not ta vord of God. Ta Gaelic is ta lancuach of ta carden of 
Aiden, and no doubt but it pe ta lancuach in which ta Shepherd 
calls his sheep on ta everlastin’ hills. You see, Malcolm, it must 
be so, for how can a mortal man speak to his God in anything put 
Gaelic ? When Mr Craham — no, not Mr Craham, ta coot man ; 
it was ta new Minister — he speak an’ say to her : ‘ Mr MacPhail, 
you ought to make your prayers in Enclish,’ I was fery wrathful, 
and I answered and said : ‘ Mr Downey, do you tare to suppose 
tat God doesn’t prefer ta Gaelic to ta Sassenach tongue 1 ’ — ‘ Mr 
MacPhail,’ says he, ‘it’ll pe for your poy I mean it. How’s ta lad 
to learn ta way of salvation if you speak to your God in his pre- 
sence in a strange tongue ? So I was opedient to his vord, and 
ta next efening I tid kneel town in Sassenach and I tid make 
begin. But, ochone ! she wouldn’t go ; her tengue would be 
cleafing to ta roof of her mouth ; ta claymore would be sticking 
rusty in ta scappard ; for her heart she was ashamed to speak to 
ta Hielan’man’s Maker in ta Sassenach tongue. You must pe 
learning ta Gaelic, or you’ll not pe peing worthy to pe her nain 
son, Malcolm.” 


26 


MALCOLM. 


But daddy, wha’s to learn me?” asked his grandson, gayly. 

“ Learn you, Malcolm ! Ta Gaelic is ta lancuach of Nature, 
and wants no learning, /nefer did pe learning it, yat I nefer haf 
to say to myself, ‘ What is it she would be saying ?’ when I speak 
ta Gaelic ; put she always has to set ta tead men — that is ta vords 
— on their feet, and put tem in pattl e-array, when she would pe 
speaking ta dull mechanic English. When she opens her mouth 
to it, ta Gaelic comes like a spring of pure water, Malcolm. Ta 
plenty of it must run out. Try it now, Malcolm. Shust oppen 
your mouth in ta Gaelc shape, and see if ta Gaelic will not pe 
falling from it.” 

Seized with a merry fit, Malcolm did open his mouth in the 
Gaelic shape, and sent from it a strange gabble, imitative of the 
most frequently recurring sounds of his grandfather’s speech. 

“ Hoo will that du, daddy ? ” he asked, after jabbering gibber- 
ish for the space of a minute. 

“ It will not be paad for a peginning, Malcolm. She cannot 
say it shust pe vorts, or tat tere pe much of ta sense in it ; but 
it pe fery like what ta pabes will say pefore tey pekin to speak it 
properly. So it’s all fery well, and if you will only pe putting 
your mouth in ta Gaelic shape often enough, ta sounds will soon 
pe taking ta shape of it, and ta vorts will be coming trough ta 
mists, and pefore you know, you’ll pe peing a creat credit to 
your cranfather, my boy, Malcolm.” 

A silence followed, for Malcolm’s attempt had not had the 
result he anticipated : he had thought only to make his grand- 
father laugh. Presently the old man resumed, in the kindest 
voice : 

“ And tere’s another thing, Malcolm, tat’s much wanting to 
you : you’ll never pe a man — not to speak of a pard like your 
cranfather — if you’ll not pe learning to play on ta bagpipes.” 

Malcolm, who had been leaning against the chimley-lug while 
his grandfather spoke, moved gently round behind his chair, 
reached out for the pipes where they lay in a corner at the old 
man’s side, and catching them up softly, put the mouthpiece to 
his lips. With a few vigorous blasts he filled the bag, and out 
burst the double droning bass, while the youth’s fingers, clutching 
the chanter as by the throat, at once compelled its screeches into 
shape far better, at least, than his lips had been able to give to 
the crude material of Gaelic. He played the only reel he knew, 
but that with vigour and effect. 

At the first sound of its notes the old man sprung to his feet 
and began capering to the reel — partly in delight with the music, 
but far more in delight with the musician, while, ever and anon. 


DUNCAN MA CP HA ID 


27 


with feeble yell, he uttered the unspellable Hoogh of the High- 
lander, and jumped, as he thought, high in the air, though 
his failing limbs, alas ! lifted his feet scarce an inch from ths 
floor. 

“Aigh ! aigh!” he sighed at length, yielding the contest 
between his legs and the lungs of the lad — “ aigh ! aigh ! she’ll 
die happy ! she’ll die happy ! Hear till her poy, how he makes 
ta pipes speak ta true Gaelic I Ta pest o’ Gaelic, tat ! Old 
Tuncan’s pipes ’ll not know how to be talking Sassenach. See 
to it ! see to it ! He had put to blow in at ta one end, and out 
came ta reel at the other. Hoogh 1 hoogh ! Play us ta Righil 
Thulachan, Malcolm, my chief ! ” 

“ I kenna reel, strathspey, nor lilt, but jist that burd alane, 
daddy.” 

“ Give tern to me, my poy ! ” cried the old piper, reaching out 
a hand as eager to clutch the uncouth instrument as the miser’s 
to finger his gold ; “ hear well to me as I play, and you’ll soon 
be able to play pibroch or coronach with the best piper between 
Cape Wrath and ta Mull o’ Cantyre.” 

He played tune after tune until his breath failed him, and an 
exhausted grunt of the drone in the middle of a coronach, 
followed by an abrupt pause, revealed the emptiness of both 
lungs and bag. Then first he remembered his object, forgotten 
the moment he had filled his bag. 

“ Now, Malcolm,” he said, offering the pipes to his grandson ; 
“ you play tat after me.” 

He had himself, of course, learned all by the ear, but could 
hardly have been serious in requesting Malcolm to follow him 
through such a succession of tortuous mazes. 

I haena a memory up to that, daddy ; but I s’ get a haud o’ 
Mr Graham’s flute-music, and maybe that’ll help me a bit. — 
Wadna ye be takin’ hame Meg Partan’s blackin’ ’at ye promised 
her?” 

“ Surely, my son. She should always be keeping her promises.” 

He rose, and getting a small stone bottle and his stick from the 
corner between the projecting inglecheek and the window, left the* 
house, to walk with unerring steps through the labyrinth of the 
village, threading his way from passage to passage and avoiding 
pools and projecting stones, not to say houses, and human -beings. 
His eyes, or indeed perhaps rather his whole face, appeared to 
possess an ethereal sense as of touch, for, without the slightest 
contact in the ordinary sense of the word, he was aware of the 
neighbourhood of material objects, as if through the pulsations 
of some medium to others imperceptible. He could, with per- 


28 


MALCOLM . 


feet accuracy, tell the height of any wall or fence within a few 
feet of him ; could perceive at once whether it was high or low 
or half tide, and that merely by going out in front of the houses 
and turning his face with its sightless eyeballs towards the sea ; 
knew whether a woman who spoke to him had a child in he*" 
arms or not ; and, indeed, was believed to know sooner than 
ordinary mortals that one was about to become a mother. 

He was a strange figure to look upon in that lowland village, 
for he invariably wore the highland dress : in truth, he had never 
had a pair of trcJwsers on his legs, and was far from pleased that 
his grandson clothed himself in such contemptible garments. 
But, contrasted with the showy style of his costume, there was 
something most pathetic in the blended pallor of hue into which 
the originally gorgeous colours of his kilt had faded — noticeable 
chiefly on week-days, when he wore no sporran ; for the kilt, 
encountering, from its loose construction, comparatively little 
strain or friction, may reach an antiquity unknown to the gar- 
ments of the low country, and, while perfectly decent, yet look 
ancient exceedingly. On Sundays, however, he made the best 
of himself, and came out like a belated and aged butterfly — with 
his father’s sporran, or tasselled goatskin purse, in front of him, 
his grandfather’s dirk at his side, his great-grandfather's skene-dhu , 
or little black-hafted knife, stuck in the stocking of his right leg, 
and a huge round brooch of brass — nearly half a foot in diameter, 
and, Mr Graham said, as old as the battle of Harlaw — on his 
left shoulder. In these adornments he would walk proudly to 
church, leaning on the arm of his grandson. 

“ The piper’s gey {considerably) brokken-like the day,” said one 
of the fishermen’s wives to a neighbour as he passed them — the 
fact being that he had not yet recovered from his second revel 
in the pipes so soon after the exhaustion of his morning’s duty, 
and was, in consequence, more asthmatic than usual. 

“ I doobt he’ll be slippin’ awa some cauld nicht,” said the 
other : “ his leevin’ breath’s ill to get. 

“ Ay ; he has to warstle for’t, puir man ! Weel, he’ll be 
missed, the blin’ body ! It’s exterordinor hoo he’s managed to 
live, and bring up sic a fine lad as that Malcolm o’ his.” 

“ Weel, ye see, Providence has been kin’ till him as weel ’s 
ither blin’ craturs. The toon’s pipin’ ’s no to be despised ; an’ 
there’s the cryin’, an’ the chop, an’ the lamps. ’Deed he’s been 
an eident {diligent) cratur — an’ for a blin’ man, as ye say, it’s jist 
exterordinar.” 

“ Div ye min’ whan first he cam’ to the toon, lass ? ” 

“ Ay ; what wad hinner me min’in’ that ? It’s nae sae lang.” 


ALEXANDER GRAHAM. 


29 

“ Ma’colm ’at’s sic a fine laad noo, they tell me wasna muckle 
bigger nor a gey haddie ( tolerable haddock).” 

“ But the auld man was an auld man than, though nae doobt 
he’s unco’ failed sin syne.” 

“ A dochter’s bairn, they say, the laad/ 

“ Ay, they say, but wha kens ? Duncan could never be gotten 
to open his mou’ as to the father or mither o’ ’m, an’ sae it weel 
may be as they say. It’s nigh twenty year noo, I’m thinkin’ sin 
he made ’s appearance. Ye wasna come frae Scaurnose er’ than.” 

“ Some fowk says the auld man’s name’s no MacPhail. an’ he 
maun hae come here in hidin’ for some rouch job or ither ’at 
he’s been mixed up wi’. 

“ I s’ believe nae ill o’ sic a puir, hairmless body. Fowk ’at 
maks their ain livin’, wantin’ the een to guide them, canna be 
that far aff the straucht. Guid guide ’s! we hae eneuch to 
answer for, oor ainsels, ohn passed {without passing) jeedgment 
upo’ ane anither.” 

“ I was but tellin* ye what fowk telled me,” returned the 
younger woman. 

“ Ay, ay, lass ; I ken that, for I ken there was fowk to tell ye.” 


CHAPTER VIL 

ALEXANDER GRAHAM. 

As soon as his grandfather left the house, Malcolm went out also, 
closing the door behind him, and turning the key, but leaving it 
in the lock. He ascended to the upper town, only, however, to 
pass through its main street, at the top of which he turned and 
looked back for a few moments, apparently in contemplation. 
The descent to the shore was so sudden that he could see 
nothing of the harbour or of the village he had left — nothing 
but the blue bay and the filmy mountains of Sutherlandshire, 
molten by distance into cloudy questions, and looking, betwixt 
blue sea and blue sky, less substantial than either. After gazing 
for a moment, he turned again, and held on his way, through 
fields which no fence parted from the road. The morning was 
still glorious, the larks right jubilant, and the air filled with the 
sweet scents of cottage flowers. Across the fields came the 
occasional low of an ox, and the distant sounds of children 
at play. But Malcolm saw without noting, and heard without 
seeding, for his mind was full of speculation concerning the 


30 


MALCOLM. 


lovely girl, whose vision appeared already far off : — who might 
she be ? whence had she come ? whither could she have vanished ? 
That she did not belong to the neighbourhood was certain, he 
thought ; but there was a farm-house near the sea-town where 
they let lodgings ; and, although it was early in the season, she 
might belong to some family which had come to spend a few of 
the summer weeks there; possibly his appearance had prevented 
her from having her bath that morning. If he should have the 
good fortune to see her again, he would show her a place far fitter 
for the purpose — a perfect arbour of rocks, utterly secluded, with 
a floor of deep sand, and without a hole for crab or lobster. 

His road led him in the direction of a few cottages lying in a 
hollow. Beside them rose a vision of trees, bordered by an ivy- 
grown wall, from amidst whose summits shot the spire of the 
church ; and from beyond the spire, through the trees, came 
golden glimmers as of vane and crescent and pinnacled ball, 
that hinted at some shadowy abode of encnantment within ; but 
as he descended the slope towards the cottages the trees gradu- 
ally rose and shut in everything. 

These cottages were far more ancient than the houses of the 
town, were covered with green thatch, were buried in ivy, and 
would soon be radiant with roses and honeysuckles. They were 
gathered irregularly about a gate of curious old iron-work, 
opening on the churchyard, but more like an entrance to the 
grounds behind the church, for it told of ancient state, bearing 
on each of its pillars a great stone heron with a fish in its beak. 

This was the quarter whence had come the noises of children, 
but they had now ceased, or rather sunk into a gentle murmur, 
which oozed, like the sound of bees from a straw-covered bee- 
hive, out of a cottage rather larger than the rest, which stood 
close by the churchyard gate. It was the parish school, and 
these cottages were all that remained of the old town of Port- 
lossie, which had at one time stretched in a long irregular street 
almost to the shore. The town cross yet stood, but away 
solitary on a green hill that overlooked the sands. 

During the summer the long walk from the new town to the 
school and to the church was anything but a hardship : in winter 
it was otheiwise, for then there were days in which few would 
venture the single mile that separated them. 

The door of the school, bisected longitudinally, had one of its 
halves open, and by it outflowed the gentle hum of the honey- 
bees of learning. Malcolm walked in, and had the whole of the 
busy scene at once before him. The place was like a barn, open 
from wail to wall, and from floor to rafters and thatch, browned 


ALEXANDER GRAHAM. 


3 * 


with the peat smoke of vanished winters. Two thirds of the 
space were filled with long desks and forms ; the other had only 
the master’s desk, and thus afforded room for standing classes. 
At the present moment it was vacant, fofi the prayer was but just 
over, and the Bible class had not been called up : there Alexander 
Graham, the schoolmaster, descending from his desk, met and 
welcomed Malcolm with a kind shake of the hand. He was a man 
of middle height, but very thin ; and about five and forty years of 
age, but looked older, because of his thin grey hair and a stoop 
in the shoulders. He was dressed in a shabby black tail coat, 
and clean white neckcloth ; the rest of his clothes were of parson 
grey, noticeably shabby also. The quiet sweetness of his smile, 
and a composed look of submission were suggestive of the purifi- 
cation of sorrow, but were attributed by the townsfolk to disap- 
pointment ; for he was still but a schoolmaster, whose aim they 
thought must be a pulpit and a parish. But Mr Graham had 
been early released from such an ambition, if it had ever possessed 
him, and had for many years been more than content to give 
himself to the hopefuller work of training children for the true 
ends of life : he lived the quietest of studious lives, with an old 
housekeeper. 

Malcolm had been a favourite pupil, and the relation of master 
and scholar did not cease when the latter saw that he ought to 
do something to lighten the burden of his grandfather, and so left 
the school and betook himself to the life of a fisherman — with 
the slow leave of Duncan, who had set his heart on making a 
scholar of him, and would never, indeed, had Gaelic been 
amongst his studies, have been won by the most laboursome 
petition. He asserted himself perfectly able to provide for both 
for ten years to come at least, in proof of which he roused the 
inhabitants of Portlossie, during the space of a whole month, a 
full hour earlier than usual, with the most terrific blasts of the 
bagpipes, and this notwithstanding complaint and expostulation 
on all sides, so that at length the provost had to interfere ; after 
which outburst of defiance to time, however, his energy had begun 
to decay so visibly that Malcolm gave himself to the pipes in 
secret, that he might be ready, in case of sudden emergency, to 
take his grandfather’s place ; for Duncan lived in constant dread 
of the hour when his office might be taken from him and con- 
ferred on a mere drummer, or, still worse, on a certain ne’er-do- 
weel cousin of the provost, so devoid of music as to be capable 
only of ringing a bell. 

“ I’ve had an invitation to Miss Campbell’s funeral — Miss 
Horn’s cousin, you know,” said Mr Graham, in a hesitating and 


32 MALCOLM. 

subdued voice : “ could you manage to take the school for mefc 
Malcolm ? ” 

“Yes, sir. There’s naething to hinner me. What day is ’t 
upo’ ?” 

“ Saturday.” 

“ Verra weel, sir. I s’ be here in guid time.” 

This matter settled, the business of the school, in which, as he 
did often, Malcolm had come to assist, began. Only a pupil of 
his own could have worked with Mr Graham, for his mode was 
very peculiar. But the strangest fact in it would have been the 
last to reveal itself to an ordinary observer. This was, that he 
rarely contradicted anything : he would call up the opposing 
truth, set it face to face with the error, and leave the two to fight 
it out. The human mind and conscience were, he said, the 
plains of Armageddon, where the battle of good and evil was for 
ever raging ; and the one business of a teacher was to rouse and 
urge this battle by leading fresh forces of the truth into the field 
— forces composed as little as might be of the hireling troops of 
the intellect, and as much as possible of the native energies of 
the heart, imagination, and conscience. In a word, he would 
oppose error only by teaching the truth. 

In early life he had come under the influence of the writings 
of William Law, which he read as one who pondered every doc- 
trine in that light which only obedience to the truth can open 
upon it. With a keen eye for the discovery of universal law in 
the individual fact, he read even the marvels of the New Testa- 
ment practically. Hence, in training his soldiers, every lesson 
he gave them was a missile ; every admonishment of youth or 
maiden was as the mounting of an armed champion, and the 
launching of him with a God-speed into the thick of the fight. 

He now called up the Bible-class, and Malcolm sat beside and 
listened. That morning they had to read one of the chapters in 
the history of Jacob. 

“ Was Jacob a good man?” he asked, as soon as the reading, 
each of the scholars in turn taking a verse, was over. 

An apparently universal expression of assent followed; halting 
in its wake, however, came the voice of a boy near the bottom of 
the class : 

“ Wasna he some dooble, sir ? ” 

“ You are right, Sheltie,” said the master ; “ he was double. I 
must, I find, put the questiQn in another shape : — Was Jacob a 
bad man ? ” 

Again came such a burst of yesses that it might have been 
taken for a general hiss. But limping in the rear came again 


ALEXANDER GRAHAM. 


33 


the half-dissentient voice of Jamie Joss, whom the master had 
just addressed as Sheltie : 

“ Pairtly, sir.” 

“You think, then, Sheltie, that a man may be both bad and 
good ? ” 

“ I dinna ken, sir. I think he may be whiles ane an’ whiles 
the ither, an’ whiles maybe it wad be ill to say whilk. Oor 
collie’s whiles in twa min’s whether he’ll du what he’s telled or 

no.” 

“ That’s the battle of Armageddon, Sheltie, my man. It’s aye 
ragin’, ohn gun roared or bagonet clashed. Ye maun up an’ do 
yer best in’t, my man. Gien ye dee fechtin’ like a man, ye’ll flee 
up wi’ a quaiet face an’ wide open een ; an’ there’s a great Ane 
’at ’ll say to ye, ‘ Weel dune, laddie ! ’ But gien ye gie in to the 
enemy, he’ll turn ye intill a creepin’ thing ’at eats dirt ; an’ there 
’ll no be a hole in a’ the crystal wa’ o’ the New Jerusalem near 
eneuch to the grun’ to lat ye creep throu’.” 

As soon as ever Alexander Graham, the polished thinker and 
sweet-mannered gentleman, opened his mouth concerning the 
things he loved best, that moment the most poetic forms came 
pouring out in the most rugged speech. 

“ I reckon, sir,” said Sheltie, “Jacob hadna fouchten oot his 
battle.” 

“ That’s jist it, my boy. And because he wouldna get up and 
fecht manfully, God had to tak him in han’. Ye’ve heard tell o’ 
generals, when their troops war rinnin’ awa’, haein’ to cut this 
man doon, shute that ane, and lick anither, till he turned them 
a’ richt face aboot and drave them on to the foe like a spate ! 
And the trouble God took wi’ Jacob wasna lost upon him at 
last.” 

“ An’ what cam o’ Esau, sir ? ” asked a pale-faced maiden with 
blue eyes. “ He wasna an ill kin* o’ a chield — was he, sir? ” 

“No, Mappy,” answered the master ; “ he was a fine chield, 
as you say ; but he nott ( needed ) mair time and gentler treatment 
to mak onything o’ him. Ye see he had a guid hert, but was a 
duller kin’ o’ cratur a’thegither, and cared for naething he could 
na see or hanle. He never thoucht muckle aboot God at a'. 
Jacob was anither sort — a poet kin’ o’ a man, but a sneck-drawin* 
cratur for a’ that. It was easier, hooever, to get the slyness oot 
o’ Jacob, than the dulness oot o’ Esau. Punishment tellt upo’ 
Jacob like upon a thin-skinned horse, whauras Esau was mair like 
the minister’s powny, that can hardly be made to unnerstan’ that 
ye want him to gang on. But o’ the ither han’, dullness is a thing 
that can be borne wi’ : there’s nay hurry aboot that \ but the 


34 


MALCOLM. 


deceitfu’ tricks o y Jacob war na to be endured, and sae the tawse 
( leather-strap ) cam doon up o’ him." 

“ An’ what for didna God mak Esau as clever as Jacob ? ” asked 
a wizened-faced boy near the top of the class. 

“ Ah, my Peery ! ” said Mr Graham, “ I canna tell ye that. 
A’ that I can tell is, that God hadna dune makin’ at him, an’ some 
kin’ o’ fowk tak langer to mak oot than ithers. An’ ye canna tell 
what they’re to be till they’re made oot. But whether what I tell 
ye be richt or no, God maun hae the verra best o’ rizzons for ’t, 
ower guid maybe for us to unnerstan’ — the best o’ rizzons for 
Esau himsel’, I mean, for the Creator luiks efter his cratur first 
ava’ (of all). — And now,” concluded Mr Graham, resuming his 
English, “go to your lessons; and be diligent, that God may 
think it worth while to get on faster with the making of you.” 

In a moment the class was dispersed and all were seated. In 
another, the sound of scuffling arose, and fists were seen storming 
across a desk. 

“ Andrew Jamieson and Poochy, come up here,” said the 
master in a loud voice. 

“ He hittit me first,” cried Andrew, the moment they were 
within a respectful distance of the master, whereupon Mr Graham 
turned to the other with inquiry in his eyes. 

“He had nae business to ca’ me Poochy/ 

“ No more he had ; but you had just as little right to punish 
him for it. The offence was against me : he had no right to use 
my name for you, and the quarrel was mine. For the present 
you are Poochy no more : go to your place, William Wilson.” 

The boy burst out sobbing, and crept back to his seat with his 
knuckles in his eyes. 

“ Andrew J amieson,” the master went on, “ I had almost got a 
name for you, but you have sent it away. You are not ready for 
it yet, I see. Go to your place.” 

With downcast looks Andrew followed William, and the watch- 
ful eyes of the master saw that, instead of quarrelling any more 
during the day, they seemed to catch at every opportunity of 
showing each other a kindness. 

Mr Graham never used bodily punishment : he ruled chiefly 
by the aid of a system of individual titles, of the mingled charac- 
ters of pet-name and nickname. As soon as the individuality of 
a boy had attained to signs of blossoming — that is, had be- 
come such that he could predict not only an upright but a 
characteristic behaviour in given circumstances, he would take 
him aside and whisper in his ear that henceforth, so long as he 
deserved it, he would call him by a certain name — one generally 


ALEXANDER GRAHAM. 


35 


derived from some object in the animal or vegetable world, and 
pointing to a resemblance which was not often patent to any eye 
but the master’s own. Pie had given the name of Poochy , for 
instance to William Wilson, because, like the kangaroo, he 
sought his object in a succession of awkward, yet not the less 
availing leaps — gulping his knowledge and pocketing his con- 
quered marble after a like fashion. Mappy , the name which 
thus belonged to a certain flaxen haired, soft-eyed girl, corre 
sponds to the - English bunny. Sheltie is the small Scotch 
mountain-pony, active and strong. Pee?y means pegtop. But 
not above a quarter of the children had pet names. To gain one 
was to reach the highest honour of the school ; the withdrawal 
of it was the severest of punishments, and the restoring of it the 
sign of perfect reconciliation. The master permitted no one else 
to use it, and was seldom known to forget himself so far as to 
utter it while its owner was in disgrace. The hope of gaining 
such a name, or the fear of losing it, was in the pupil the strongest 
ally of the master, the most powerful enforcement of his in- 
fluences. It was a scheme of government by aspiration. But it 
owed all its operative power to the character of the man who 
had adopted rather than invented it — for the scheme had been 
suggested by a certain passage in the book of the Revelation. 

Without having read a word of Swedenborg, he was a believer 
in the absolute correspondence of the inward and outward ; and, 
thus long before the younger Darwin arose, had suspected a close 
relationship — remote identity, indeed, in nature and history, 
between the animal and human worlds. But photographs from 
a good many different points would be necessary to afford any- 
thing like a complete notion of the character of this country 
schoolmaster. 

Towards noon, while he was busy with an astronomical class, 
explaining, by means partly of the blackboard, partly of two boys 
representing the relation of the earth and the moon, how it comes 
that we see but one half of the latter, the door gently opened and 
the troubled face of the mad laird peeped slowly in. His body 
followed as gently, and at last — sad symbol of his weight of care 
- — his hump appeared, with a slow half-revolution as he turned to 
shut the door behind him. Taking off his hat, he walked up to 
Mr Graham, who, busy with his astronomy, had not perceived 
his entrance, touched him on the arm, and, standing on tip-toe, 
whispered softly in his ear, as if it were a painful secret that must 
be respected, — 

“ I dinna ken whaur I cam frae. I want to come to the 
school.” 


36 


MALCOLM. 


Mr Graham turned and shook hands with him, respectfully 
addressing him as Mi Stewart, and got down for him the arm- 
chair which stood behind his desk. But, with the politest bow, 
the laird declined it, and mournfully repeating the words, “ I 
dinna ken whaur I cam frae,” took a place readily yielded him 
in the astronomical circle surrounding the symbolic boys. 

This was not by any means his first appearance there ; for every 
now and then he was seized with a desire to go to school, plainly 
with the object of finding out where he came from. This always 
fell in his quieter times, and for days together he would attend 
regularly ; in one instance he was not absent an hour for a whole 
month. He spoke so little, however, that it was impossible to 
tell how much he understood, although he seemed to enjoy all 
that went on. He was so quiet, so sadly gentle, that he gave no 
trouble of any sort, and after the first few minutes of a fresh 
appearance, the attention of the scholars was rarely distracted by 
his presence. 

The way in which the master treated him awoke like respect 
in his pupils. Boys and girls were equally ready to make room 
for him on their forms, and any one of the latter who had by 
some kind attention awakened the watery glint of a smile on the 
melancholy features of the troubled man, would boast of her 
success. Hence it came that the neighbourhood of Portlossie was 
the one spot in the county where a person of weak intellect or 
peculiar appearance might go about free of insult 

The peculiar sentence the laird so often uttered was the only 
one he invariably spoke with definite clearness. In every other 
attempt at speech he was liable to be assailed by an often recurr- 
ing impediment, during the continuance of which he could 
compass but a word here and there, often betaking himself, in the 
agony of suppressed utterance, to the most extravagant gestures, 
with which he would sometimes succeed in so supplementing his 
words as to render his meaning intelligible. 

The two boys representing the earth and the moon, had 
returned to their places in the. class, and Mr Graham had gone 
on to give a description of the moon, in which he had necessarily 
mentioned the enormous height of her mountains as compared 
with those of the earth. But in the course of asking some 
questions, he found a need of further explanation, and therefore 
once more required the services of the boy-sun and boy-moon. 
The moment the latter, however, began to describe his circle 
around the former, Mr Stewart stepped gravely up to him, and, 
laying hold of his hand, led him back to his station in the class : 
then, turning first one shoulder, then the other to the company, 


THE SWIVEL. 


37 


so as to attract attention to his hump, uttered the single word 
Mountain , and took on himself the part of the moon, proceeding 
to revolve in the circle which represented her orbit Several ol 
the boys and girls smiled, but no one laughed, for Mr Graham’s 
gravity maintained theirs. Without remark, he used the mad 
laird for a moon to the end of his explanation. 

Mr Stewart remained in the school all the morning, stood up 
with every class Mr Graham taught, and in the intervals sat, with 
book or slate before him, still as a Brahmin on the fancied verge 
of his re-absorption, save that he murmured to himself now and 
then, — 

“ I dinna ken whaur I cam frae.” 

When his pupils dispersed for dinner, Mr Graham invited him 
to go to his house and share his homely meal, but with polished 
gesture and broken speech, Mr Stewart declined, walked away 
towards the town, and was seen no more that afternoon 


CHAPTER VIII 

THE SWIVEL. 

Mrs Courthope, the housekeeper at Lossie House, was a good 
woman, who did not stand upon her dignities, as small rulers are 
apt tn do, but cultivated friendly relations with the people of the 
Sea Town. Some of the rougher of the women despised the 
sweet outlandish speech she had brought with her from her native 
England, and accused her of mim-mou' dness , or an affected 
modesty in the use of words ; but not the less was she in their 
eyes a great lady, — whence indeed came the special pleasure in 
finding flaws in her — for to them she was the representative of 
the noble family on whose skirts they and their ancestors had 
been settled for ages, the last marquis not having visited the place 
for many years, and the present having but lately succeeded. 

Duncan MacPhail was a favourite with her ; for the English 
woman will generally prefer the highland to the lowland Scots- 
man ; and she seldom visited the Seaton without looking in upon 
him ; so that when Malcolm returned from the Alton, or Old 
Town, where the school was, it did not in the least surprise him 
to find her seated with his grandfather. Apparently, however, 
there had been some dissension between them, for the old man 
sat in his corner strangely wrathful, his face in a glow, his head 


38 


MALCOLM. 


thrown back, his nostrils distend jd, and his eyelids working, as 
if his eyes were “ poor dumb mouths,” like Caesar’s wounds, try- 
ing to speak. 

“We are told in the New Testament to forgive our enemies, 
you know,” said Mrs Courthope, heedless of his entrance, but in 
a voice that seemed rather to plead than oppose. 

“ Inteet she will not be false to her shief and her clan,” retorted 
Duncan persistently. “ She will not forgife Cawmil of Glenlyon.” 

“ But he’s dead long since, and we may at least hope he 
repented and was forgiven.” 

“She’ll be hoping nothing of the kind, Mistress Kertope,” 
replied Duncan. “ But if, as you say, God will be forgifing him, 
which I do not belief, — let that pe enough for ta greedy black- 
guard. Sure, it matters but small whether poor Tuncan Mac- 
Phail will be forgifing him or not. Anyhow, he must do without 
it, for he shall not haf it. He is a tamn fillain and scounrel, and 
so she says, with her respecs to you. Mistress Kertope.” 

His sightless eyes flashed with indignation; and perceiving it 
was time to change the subject, the housekeeper turned to 
Malcolm. 

“ Could you bring me a nice mackerel or whiting for my lord’s 
breakfast to-morrow morning, Malcolm ?” she said. 

“ Certaintly, mem. I ’s be wi' ye in guid time wi’ the best the 
sea ’ll gie me,” he answered. 

“ If I have the fish by nine o’clock, that will be early enough,” 
she returned. 

“ I wad na like to wait sae lang for my brakfast,” remarked 
Malcolm. 

“ You wouldn’t mind it much, if you waited asleep,” said Mrs 
Courthope. 

“ Can onybody sleep till sic a time o’ day as that?” exclaimed 
the youth. 

“You must remember my lord doesn’t go to bed for hours 
after you, Malcolm.” 

“ An’ what can keep him up a’ that time? It’s no as gien he 
war efter the herrin’, an’ had the win’ an’ the watter an’ the netfu’s 
o’ waumlin craturs to haud him waukin’.” 

“ Oh ! he reads and writes, and sometimes goes walking about 
the grounds after everybody else is in bed,” said Mrs Courthope, 
“ he and his dog.” 

“ Well, I wad rather be up ear’,” said Malcolm ; “ a heap 
raither. I like fine to be oot i’ the quaiet o’ the mornin’ afore the 
sun’s up to set the din gaun ; whan it’s a’ clear but no bricht — 
like the back o’ a bonny sawmon ; an’ air an’ watter an’ a’ luiks as 


THE SWIVEL, 


39 


gien they war waitin' for something — quaiet, verra quaiet, but no 
content.” 

Malcolm uttered this long speech, and went on with more like 
it, in the hope of affording time for the stormy waters of Duncan’s 
spirit to assuage. Nor was he disappointed ; for, if there was a 
sound on the earth Duncan loved to hear, it was the voice of his 
boy ; and by degrees the tempest sank to repose, the gathered 
glooms melted from his countenance, and the sun-light of a smile 
broke out 

“ Hear to him !” he cried. “ Her poy will be a creat pard 
some tay, and sing pefore ta Stuart kings, when they come pack 
to Holyrood !” 

Mrs Courthope had enough of poetry in her to be pleased 
with Malcolm’s quiet enthusiasm, and spoke a kind word of 
sympathy with the old man’s delight as she rose to take her leave. 
Duncan rose also, and followed her to the door, making her a 
courtly bow, and that just as she turned away. 

“ It ’ll pe a coot ’oman, Mistress Kertope,” he said as he came 
back ; “ and it ’ll no pe to plame her for forgifing Glenlyon, for 
he did not kill her creat-crandmother. Put it’ll pe fery paad 
preeding to request her nainsel, Tuncan MacPhail, to be forgifing 
ta rascal. Only she’ll pe put a voman, and it’ll not pe knowing 
no petter to her. — You’ll be minding you’ll be firing ta cun at six 
o’clock exackly, Malcolm, for all she says ; for my lord peing put 
shust come home to his property, it might be a fex to him if tere 
was any mistake so soon. Put inteed, I vonder he hasn’t been 
sending for old Tuncan to be gifing him a song or two on ta 
peeps ; for he’ll pe hafing ta oceans of fery coot highland plood 
in his own feins ; and his friend, ta Prince of Wales, who has no 
more rights to it than a maackerel fish, will pe wearing ta kilts at 
Holyrood. So mind you pe firing ta cun at sax, my son.” 

For some years, young as he was, Malcolm had hired himself 
to one or other of the boat-proprietors of the Seaton or of Scaur- 
nose, for the herring-fishing — only, however, in the immediate 
neighbourhood, refusing to go to the western islands, or any 
station whence he could not return to sleep at his grandfather’s 
cottage. He had thus on every occasion earned enough to pro- 
vide for the following winter, so that his grandfather’s little income 
as piper, and other small returns, were accumulating in various 
concealments about the cottage ; for, in his care for the future, 
Duncan dreaded lest Malcolm should buy things for him, with- 
out which, in his own sightless judgment, he could do well 
enough. 

Until the herring-season should arrive, however, Malcolm made 


40 


MALCOLM. 


a little money by line-fishing ; for he had bargained, the year 
before, with the captain of a schooner for an old ship’s-boat, and 
had patched and caulked it into a sufficiently serviceable con- 
dition. He sold his fish in the town and immediate neighbour* 
hood, where a good many housekeepers favoured the handsome 
and cheery young fisherman. 

He would now be often out in the bay long before it was time 
to call his grandfather, in his turn to rouse the sleepers of Port- 
lossie. But the old man had as yet always waked about the right 
time, and the inhabitants had never had any ground of complaint 
— a few minutes one way or the other being of little consequence. 
He was the cock which woke the whole yard : morning after 
morning his pipes went crowing through the streets of the upper 
region, his music ending always with his round. But after the 
institution of the gun-signal, his custom was to go on playing 
where he stood until he heard it, or to stop short in the midst of 
his round and his liveliest rhteille the moment it reached his ear. 
Loath as he might be to give over, that sense of good manners 
which was supreme in every highlander of the old time, inter- 
dicted the fingering of a note after the marquis’s gun had called 
aloud. 

When Malcolm meant to go fishing, he always loaded the swivel 
the night before, and about sunset the same evening he set out 
for that purpose. Not a creature was visible on the border of the 
curving bay except a few boys far off on the gleaming sands 
whence the tide had just receded : they were digging for sand- 
eels — lovely little silvery fishes — which, as every now and then 
the spade turned one or two up, they threw into a tin pail for 
bait. But on the summit of the long sandhill, the lonely figure 
of a man was walking to and fro in the level light of the rosy 
west ; and as Malcolm climbed the near end of the dune, it was 
turning far off at the other : half-way between them was the 
embrasure with the brass swivel, and there they met. 

Although he had never seen him before, Malcolm perceived at 
once it must be Lord Lossie, and lifted his bonnet. The marquis 
nodded and passed on, but the next moment, hearing the noise 
of Malcolm’s proceedings with the swivel, turned and said — 

“ What are you about there with that gun, my lad?” 

“ I’m jist ga’in’ to dicht her oot an’ lod her, my lord,” answered 
Malcolm. 

“ And what next? You’re not going to fire the thing?” 

** Ay — the morn’s momin’, my lord.” 

“ What will that be for?” 

** Ow, jist to wauk yer lordship.” 


THE SWIVEL, 


41 


" Hm !* said his lordship, with more expression than articula- 
tion. 

“ Will I no lod her?” asked Malcolm, throwing down the 
ramrod, and approaching the swivel, as if to turn the muzzle of 
it again into the embrasure. 

“ Oh, yes ! load her by all means. 1 don’t want to interfere 
with any of your customs. But if that is your object, the means, 
I fear, are inadequate.” 

“ It’s a comfort to hear that, my lord ; for I canna aye be sure 
o’ my auld watch, an’ may weel be oot a five minutes or twa 
whiles. Sae, in future, seein’ it’s o’ sic sma’ consequence to yer 
lordship, I s’ jist let her aff whan it’s convenient. A feow minutes 
winna maitter muckle to the bailie-bodies.” 

There was something in Malcolm’s address that pleased Lord 
Lossie — the mingling of respect and humour, probably — the 
frankness and composure, perhaps. He was not self-conscious 
enough to be shy, and was so free from design of any sort that 
he doubted the good will of no one. 

“ What’s your name?” asked the marquis abruptly. 

“ Malcolm MacPhail, my lord.” 

“ MacPhail ? I heard the name this very day ! Let me see.” 

“ My gran’father’s the blin’ piper, my lord.” 

“ Yes, yes. Tell him I shall want him at the House. I left 
my own piper at Ceanglas.” 

“ I’ll fess him wi’ me the morn, gien ye like, my lord, for I’ll 
be ower wi’ some fine troot or ither, gien I haena the waur luck, 
the morn’s mornin’ : Mistress Courthope says she’ll be aye ready 
for ane to fry to yer lordship’s brakfast. But I’m thinkin’ that’ll 
be ower ear’ for ye to see him.” 

“ I’ll send for him when 1 want him. Go on with your brazen 
serpent there, only mind you don’t give her too much supper.” 

“Jist look at her ribs, my lord! she winna rive!” was the 
youth’s response ; and the marquis was moving off with a smile, 
when Malcolm called after him. 

“ Gien yer lordship likes to see yer ain ferlies, I ken whaur 
some o’ them lie,” he said. 

“ What do you mean by ferlies V' asked the marquis. 

“ Ow ! keeriosities, ye ken. For enstance, there’s some queer 
caves alang the cost — twa or three o’ them afore ye come to the 
Scaurnose. They say the water bude till ha’ howkit them ance 
upon a time, an’ they maun hae been fu’ o’ partans, an’ lobsters, 
an’ their frien’s an’ neebours ; but they’re heigh an’ dreigh noo, 
as the fule said o’ his minister, an’ naething intill them but fou- 
marts, an’ otters, an’ sic like.” 


42 


MALCOLM. 


“ Well, well, my lad, we’ll see,” said his lordship kindly ; and 
turning once more, he resumed his walk. 

“ At yer lordship’s will,” answered Malcolm in a low voice as 
he lifted his bonnet and again bent to the swivel. 

The next morning, he was rowing slowly along in the lny, 
when he was startled by the sound of his grandfather’s pip-s, 
wafted clear and shrill on a breath of southern wind, from tne 
top of the town. He looked at his watch; it was not y^t 
five o’clock. The expectation of a summons to play at Loss e 
House, had so excited the old man’s brain that he had waked 
long before his usual time, and Portlossie must wake also. The 
worst of it was, that he had already, as Malcolm knew from the 
direction of the sound, almost reached the end of his beat, and 
must even now be expecting the report of the swivel, until he 
heard which he would not cease playing, so long as there was a 
breath in his body. Pulling, therefore, with all his might, 
Malcolm soon ran his boat ashore, and in another instant the 
sharp yell of the swivel rang among the rocks of the promontory. 
He was still standing, lapped in a light reverie as he watched the 
smoke flying seaward, when a voice, already well known to him. 
said, close at his side : 

“ What are you about with that horrid cannon ? ” 

Malcolm started. 

“Ye garred me loup, my leddy!” he returned with a smile 
and an obeisance. 

“You told me,” the girl went on emphatically, and as she 
spoke she disengaged her watch from her girdle, “ that you fired 
it at six o’clock. It is not nearly six.” 

“ Didna ye hear the pipes, my leddy? ” he rejoined. 

“ Yes, well enough ; but a whole regiment of pipes can’t make 
it six o’clock when my watch says ten minutes past five.” 

“ Eh, sic a braw watch ! ” exclaimed Malcolm. “ What’s a’ 
thae bonny white k-nots about the face o’ ’t ? ” 

“ Pearls,” she answered, in a tone that implied pity of his 
ignorance. 

“ Jist look at it aside mine 1” he exclaimed in admiration, pull- 
ing out his great old turnip. 

“ There 1” cried the girl; “your own watch says only a 
quarter past five.” 

“ Ow, ay ! my leddy ; I set it by the toon clock ’at kings i’ the 
window o’ the Lossie Airms last nicht. But I maun awa’ an’ luik 
efter my lines, or atween the deil an’ the dogfish, my lord’ll fare ill.” 

“You haven’t told me why you fired the gun,” she persisted. 

Thus compelled, Malcolm had to explain that the motive lay 


THE SWIVEL. 


43 


fn his anxiety lest his grandfather should over-exert himself, see- 
ing he was subject to severe attacks of asthma. 

“ He could stop when he was tired,” she objected. 

“Ay, gien his pride wad lat him,” answered Malcolm, and 
turned away again, eager to draw his line. 

“ Have you a boat of your own ? ” asked the lady. 

“ Ay ; yon’s her, doon on the shore yonner. Wad ye like a 
row? She’s fine an’ quaiet” 

“Who? The boat?” 

“The sea, my leddy.” 

“ Is your boat clean ? ” 

“ O a’ thing but fish. But na, it’s no fit for sic a bonny goon 
as that. I winna lat ye gang the day, my leddy ; but gien ye 
like to be here the morn’s mornin’, I s’ be here at this same hoor, 
an’ hae my boat as clean’s a Sunday sark.” 

“You think more of my gown than of myself,” she returned. 

“ There’s no fear o’ yersel’, my leddy. Ye’re ower weel made 
to blaud [spoil). But wae’s me for the goon or [before) it had 
been an hoor i’ the boat the day ! — no to mention the fish cornin’ 
walopin’ ower the gunnel ane efter the ither. But ’deed I maun 
say good mornin’, mem ! ” 

“ By all means. I don’t want to keep you a moment from 
your precious fish.” 

Feeling rebuked, without well knowing why, Malcolm accepted 
the dismissal, and ran to his boat By the time he had taken his 
oars, the girl had vanished. 

His line was a short one ; but twice the number of fish he 
wanted were already hanging from the hooks. It was still very 
early when he reached the harbour. At home he found his 
grandfather waiting for him, and his breakfast ready. 

It was hard to convince Duncan that he had waked the royal 
burgh a whole hour too soon. He insisted that, as he had never 
made such a blunder before, he could not have made it now. 

“ It’s ta watch ’at ’ll pe telling ta lies, Malcolm, my poy,” he 
said thoughtfully. “ She was once pefore.” 

“ But the sun says the same ’s the watch, daddy,” persisted 
Malcolm. 

Duncan understood the position of the sun and what it signi- 
fied, as well as the clearest-eyed man in Port Lossie, but he could 
not afford to yield. 

“ It waspeing some conspeeracy of ta cursit Cawmills, to make 
herlossherpoor pension,” he said. “ Put neveryou mind, Malcolm; 
I’ll pe making up for ta plunder ta morrow mornin’. Ta coot 
peoples shall haf teir sleeps a whole hour after tey ought to be at 
teir works.” 


44 


MALCOLM. 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE SALMON-TROUT. 

Malcolm walked up through the town with his fish, hoping to 
part with some of the less desirable of them, and so lighten his 
basket, before entering the grounds of Lossie House. But. he had 
met with little success, and was now approaching the town-gate, 
as they called it, which closed a short street at right angles to the 
principal one, when he came upon Mrs Catanach — on her knees, 
cleaning her doorstep. 

“ Weel, Macolm, what fish hae ye?” she said, without looking 
up. 

“ Hoo kent ye it was me, Mistress Catanach ? * asked the lad. 

“ Kent it was you ! ” she repeated. “ Gien there be but twa 
feet at ance in ony street o’ Portlossie, I’ll tell ye whase heid’s 
abune them, an’ my een steekit ( closed ).” 

“Hoot! ye’re a witch, Mistress Catanach ! ” said Malcolm 
merrily. 

“ That’s as may be,” she returned, rising, and nodding myste- 
riously ; “ I hae tauld ye nae mair nor the trowth. But what 
garred ye whup’s a’ oot o’ oor nakit beds by five o’clock i’ the 
mornin’, this mornin’, man ! That’s no what ye’re paid for.” 

“ Deed, mem, it was jist a mistak’ o’ my puir daddy’s. He had 
been feart o’ sleepin’ ower lang, ye see, an’ sae had waukit ower 
sune. I was oot efter the fish mysel.” 

“ But ye fired the gun ’gen the chap ( before the stroke) o’ five.” 

“ Ow, ay ! I fired the gun. The puir man wod hae bursten 
himsel’ gien I hadna.” 

“ Deil gien he had bursten himsel’ — the auld heelan’ sholt ! ” 
exclaimed Mrs Catanach spitefully. 

“Ye sanna even sic words to my gran’ father, Mrs Catanach,” 
said Malcolm with rebuke. 

She laughed a strange laugh. 

“ Sanna / ” she repeated contemptuously. “ An’ wha’s your 
gran’father, that I sud tak tent ( heed ) hoo I wag my tongue ower 
his richteousness ? ” 

Then, with a sudden change of her tone to one of would-be 
friendliness — 

“ But what’ll ye be seekin’ for that bit sawmon trooty, man?*' 
she said. 


THE SALMON-TROUT. 


45 

As she spoke she approached his basket, and would have taken 
the fish in her hands, but Malcolm involuntarily drew back. 

“ It’s gaum’ to the Hoose tc my lord’s brakfast,” he said. 

“ Hoots ! ye’ll jist lea’ the troot wi’ me. — Ye’ll be seekin’ a 
saxpence for ’t, I reckon,” she persisted, again approaching the 
basket. 

“ I tell ye, Mistress Catanach,” said Malcolm, drawing back 
now in the fear that if she once had it she would not yield it 
again, “ it’s gauin’ up to the Hoose ! ” 

“ Toots ! there’s naebody there seen ’t yet. It’s new oot o’ 
the watter.” 

“ But Mistress Courthope was doon last nicht, an’ wantit the 
best I cud heuk.” 

“ Mistress Courthope ! Wha cares for her ? A mim, cantin’ 
auld body ! Gie me the trootie, Ma’colm. Ye’re a bonny laad, 
an’ it s’ be the better for ye.” 

“ Deed I cudna du ’t, Mistress Catanach — though I’m sorry to 
disobleege ye. It’s bespoken, ye see. But there’s a fine haddie, 
an’ a bonny sma’ coddie, an’ a goukmey {gray gurnard) .” 

“ Gae ’wa’ wi’ yer haddies, an’ yer goukmeys 1 Ye sanna gowk 
me wi’ them.” 

“ Weel, I wadna wonner,” said Malcolm, “ gien Mrs Court- 
hope wad like the haddie tu, an’ maybe the lave o’ them as weel. 
Hers is a muckle faimily to haud eatin.’ I’ll jist gang to the 
Hoose first afore I mak ony mair offers frae my creel.” 

“ Ye’ll lea’ the troot wi’ me ,” said Mrs Catanach imperiously. 

“ Na ; I canna du that. Ye maun see yersel’ ’at I canna !’’ 

The woman’s face grew dark with anger. 

“ It s’ be the ivaur for ye,” she cried. 

“ I’m no gauin’ to be fleyt {frightened) at ye. Ye’re no sic a 
witch as that comes till, though ye div ken a body’s fit upo’ the 
flags ! My blin’ luckie-deddy can du mair nor that ! ” said 
Malcolm, irritated by her persistency, threats and evil looks. 

“ Daur ye me ? ” she returned, her pasty cheeks now red as 
fire, and her wicked eyes flashing as she shook her clenched fist 
at him. 

“What for no?” he answered coolly, turning his head back 
over his shoulder, for he was already on his way to the gate. 

“Ye s’ ken that, ye misbegotten funlin’ ! ” shrieked the woman, 
and waddled hastily into the house. 

“ What ails her ? ” said Malcolm to himself. “ She micht ha* 
seen ’at I bude to gie Mrs Courthope the first offer.” 

By a winding carriage-drive, through trees whose growth was 
stunted by the sea-winds, which had cut off their tops as with a 


46 


MALCOLM. 


keen razor, Malcolm made a slow descent, yet was soon 
shadowed by timber of a more prosperous growth, rising as from 
a lake of the loveliest green, spangled with starry daisies. The 
air was full of sweet odours uplifted with the ascending dew, and 
trembled with a hundred songs at once, for here was a very 
paradise for birds. At length he came in sight of a long low 
wing of the house, and went to the door that led to the kitchen. 
There a maid informed him that Mrs Courthope was in the hall, 
and he had better take his basket there, for she wanted to see 
him. He obeyed, and sought the main entrance. 

The house was an ancient pile, mainly of two sides at right 
angles, but with many gables, mostly having corbel-steps — a 
genuine old Scottish dwelling, small-windowed and gray, with 
steep slated roofs, and many turrets, each with a conical top. 
Some of these turrets rose from the ground, encasing spiral stone 
stairs ; others were but bartizans, their interiors forming recesses 
in rooms. They gave the house something of the air of a French 
chateau, only it looked stronger and far grimmer. Carved around 
some of the windows, in ancient characters, were Scripture texts 
and antique proverbs. Two time-worn specimens of heraldic 
zoology, in a state of fearful and everlasting excitement, stood 
rampant and gaping, one on each side of the hall-door, contrast- 
ing strangely with the repose of the ancient house, which looked 
very like what the oldest part of it was said to have been — a 
monastery. It had at the same time, however, a somewhat war- 
like expression, wherein consisting it would have been difficult to 
say ; nor could it ever have been capable of much defence, 
although its position in that regard was splendid. In front was a 
great gravel-space, in the centre of which lay a huge block of 
serpentine, from a quarry on the estate, filling the office of goal, 
being the pivot, as it were, around which all carnages turned. 

On one side of the house was a great stone bridge, of lofty 
span, stretching across a little glen, in which ran a brown stream 
spotted with foam — the same that entered the frith beside the 
Seaton ; not muddy, however, for though dark it was clear — its 
brown being a rich transparent hue, almost red, gathered from 
the peat-bogs of the great moorland hill behind. Only a very 
narrow terrace-walk, with battlemented parapet, lay between the 
back of the house, and a precipitous descent of a hundred feet 
to this rivulet. Up its banks, lovely with flowers and rich with 
shrubs and trees below, you might ascend until by slow grada- 
tions you left the woods and all culture behind, and found your- 
self, though still within the precincts of Lossie House, on the 
lonely side of the waste hill, a thousand feet above the sea. 


THE SALMON-TROUT. 


47 


The hall-door stood open, and just within hovered Mrs Court- 
hope, dusting certain precious things not to be handled by a 
housemaid. This portion of the building was so narrow that the 
hall occupied its entire width, and on the opposite side of it 
another door, standing also open, gave a glimpse of the glen. 

“ Good morning, Malcolm/’ said Mrs Courthope, when she 
turned and saw whose shadow fell on the marble floor. “ What 
have you brought me ? ” 

“A fine salmon-troot, mem. But gien ye had hard hoo 
Mistress Catanach flytit ( scolded ) at me ’cause I wadna gie’t to 
her ! You wad hae thocht, mem, she was something no canny 
— the w’y ’at she first beggit, an’ syne fleecht (flattered), an syne 
a’ but banned an’ swore.” 

“She’s a peculiar person, that, Malcolm. Those are nice 
whitings. I don’t care about the trout Just take it to her as 
you go back.” 

“ 1 doobt gien she’ll take it, mem. She’s an awfu’ vengefu’ 
cratur, fowk says.” 

“You remind me, Malcolm,” returned Mrs Courthope, “that 
I’m not at ease about your grandfather. He is not in a Christian 
frame of mind at all — and he is an old man too. If we don’t 
forgive our enemies, you know, the Bible plainly tells us we shall 
not be forgiven ourselves.” 

“ I’m thinkin’ it was a greater nor the Bible said that, mem,” 
returned Malcolm, who was an apt pupil of Mr Graham. “ But 
ye’ll be meanin’ Cammill o’ Glenlyon,” he went on with a smile. 
“ It canna maitter muckle to him whether my gran’father forgie 
him or no, seein’ he’s been deid this hunner year.” 

“It’s not Campbell of Glenlyon, it’s your grandfather I am 
anxious about,” said Mrs Courthope. “ Nor is it only Campbell 
of Glenlyon he’s so fierce against, but all his posterity as well.” 

“ They dinna exist, mem. There’s no sic a bein’ o’ the face 
o’ the yearth, as a descendant o’ that Glenlyon.” 

“ It makes little difference, I fear,” said Mrs Courthope, w r ho 
was no bad logician. “ The question isn’t whether or not there’s 
anybody to forgive, but whether Duncan MacPhail is willing to 
forgive.” 

“ That I do believe he is, mem ; though he wad be as salt 
astonished to hear ’t as ye are yersel’.” 

“ I don’t know what you mean by that, Malcolm.* 1 

“ I mean, mem, ’at a blin’ man, like my gran’father, canna ken 
himsel’ richt, seein’ he canna ken ither fowk richt. It’s by 
kennin’ ither fowk ’at ye come to ken yersel, mem— isna’t noo ? ” 

“ Blindness surely doesn’t prevent a man from knowing other 


48 


MALCOLM , ; 


people. He hears them, and he feels them, and indeed has 
generally more kindness from them because of his affliction.” 

“ Frae some o’ them, mem ; but it’s little kin’ness my gran’- 
father has expairienced frae Cammill o’ Glenlyon, mem.” 

“ And just as little injury, I should suppose,” said Mrs Court- 
hope. 

“ Ye’re wrang there, mem : a murdered mither maun be an 
unco skaith to oye’s oye (grandson! s grandson). But supposin' 
ye to be richt, what I say’s to the pint for a’ that. I maun jist 
explain a wee. — When I was a laddie at the schule, I was ance 
tell’t that ane o’ the loons was i’ the wye o’ mockin’ my gran’- 
father. Whan I hard it, I thocht I cud jist rive the hert o’ ’m, 
an’ set my teeth in’t, as the Dutch sodger did to the Spainiard. 
But whasa I got a grip o’ ’im, an’ the rascal turned up a frichtit 
kin’ o’ a dog-like face to me, I jist could not drive my steikit 
neive (clenched Jist) intil’t. Mem, a face is an awfu’ thing ! 
There’s aye something luikin’ oot o’ ’t ’at ye canna do as ye like 
wi’. But my gran’father never saw a face in’s life — lat alane 
Glenlyon’s ’at’s been dirt for sae mony a year. Gien he war 
luikin’ intil the face o’ that Glenlyon even, I do believe he wad 
no more drive his durk intill him ” 

“ Drive his dirk into him !” echoed Mrs Courthope, in horror 
at the very disclaimer. 

“No, I’m sure he wad not? persisted Malcolm, innocently. 
“ He micht not tak him oot o’ a pot ( hole in a river-hed), but he 
wad neither durk him nor fling him in. I’m no that sure he 
vradna even rax ( reach ) him a han’. Ae thing I am certain o’, — 
that by the time he meets Glenlyon in haven, he’ll be no that far 
frae lattin’ by-ganes be by-ganes.” 

“Meets Glenlyon in heaven !” again echoed Mrs Courthope, 
who knew enough of the story to "be startled at the taken-for- 
granted way in which Malcolm spoke. “ Is it probable that a 
wretch such as your legends describe him should ever get 
there?” 

“Ye dinna think God’s forgien him, than, mem?’' 

“ I have no right to judge Glenlyon, or any other man ; but, 
as you ask me, I must say I see no likelihood of it.” 

“ Hoo can ye compleen o’ my puir blin’ grandfather for no 
forgiein’ him, than? — I hae ye there, mem !” 

“ He may have repented, you know,” said Mrs Courthope feebly, 
finding herself in less room than was comfortable. 

“ In sic case,” returned Malcolm, “ the auld man ’ill hear a* 
aboot it the meenit he wins there ; an’ I-mak doobt he’ll du 
his best to perswaud him*> fcJ , v 


THE SALMON-TROUT. 


49 


“ But what if he shouldn’t get there,” persisted Mrs 
Courthope, in pure benevolence. 

“ Hoot toot, mem ! I wonner to hear ye ! A Cammill latten 
in, and my grandfather hauden oot ! That wad be jist yallow- 
faced Willie ower again !* Na, na ; things gang anither gait up 
there. My gran’father’s a rale guid man, for a’ ’at he has a wye 
o’ luikin’ at things ’at’s mair efter the law nor the gospel.” 

Apparently Mrs Courthope had come at length to the con- 
clusion that Malcolm was as much of a heathen as his grandfather, 
for in silence she chose her fish, in silence paid him his price, and 
then with only a sad Good-day , turned and left him. 

He would have gone back by the river-side to the sea-gate, but 
Mrs Courthope having waived her right to the fish in favour of 
Mrs Catanach, he felt bound to give her another chance, and so 
returned the way he had come. 

“ Here’s yer troot, Mistress Cat’nach,” he called aloud at her 
door, which generally stood a little ajar. “ Ye s’ hae’t for the 
saxpence — an’ a guid bargain tu, for ane o’ sic dimensions !” 

As he spoke, he held the fish in at the door, but his eyes were 
turned to the main street, whence the factor’s gig was at the 
moment rounding the corner into that in which he stood ; when 
suddenly the salmon-trout was snatched from his hand, and flung 
so violently in his face, that he staggered back into the road : the 
factor had to pull sharply up to avoid driving over him. His 
rout rather than retreat was followed by a burst of insulting 
laughter, and at the same moment, out of the house rushed a 
large vile-looking mongrel, with hair like an ill-used door-mat and 
an abbreviated nose, fresh from the ashpit, caught up the trout, 
and rushed with it towards the gate. 

“That’s richt, my bairn !” shouted Mrs Catanach to the brute 
as he ran : “ tak it to Mrs Courthope. Tak it back wi' my 
compliments.” 

Amidst a burst of malign laughter she slammed her door, and 
from a window sideways watched the young fisherman. 

As he stood looking after the dog in wrath and bewilderment, 
the factor, having recovered from the fit of merriment into which 
the sudden explosion of events had cast him, and succeeded in 
quieting his scared horse, said, slackening his reins to move on, 

“ You sell your fish too cheap, Malcolm.” 

“The deil’s i’ the tyke,” rejoined Malcolm, and, seized at last 
by a sense of the ludicrousness of the whole affair, burst out 
laughing, and turned for the High Street 

# Lord Stair, the prime mover in the Massacre of Glenco. 


50 


MALCOLM. 


u Na, na, laddie ; the deil’s no aws*' ir sic a hurry : he bed 

( remained ),” said a voice behind him. 

Malcolm turned again and lifted his bonnet. It was Miss Horn, 
who had come up from the Seaton. 

“ Did ye see yon, mem?” he asked. 

“Ay, weel that, as 1 cam up the brae. Dinna stan’ there, 
laddie. The jaud ’ll be watchin’ ye like a cat watchin’ a mouse. 
I ken her ! She’s a cat-wuman, an’ I canna bide her. She’s no 
mowse ( safe to touch). She’s in secrets mair nor guid, I s’ wad 
(wager). Come awa’ wi’ me ; I want a bit fish. I can ill eat an’ 
her lyin’ deid i’ the hoose — it winna gang ovver ; but I maun get 
some strength pitten intil me afore the berial. It’s a God’s-mercy 
I vvasna made wi’ feelin’s, ^r what wad hae come o’ me ! Whaur’s 
the gude o’ greetin ? It’s no worth the saut i’ the watter o’ ’t, 
Ma’colm. It’s an ill wardle, an micht be a bonny ane — gien’t 
warna for ill men.” 

“ Dod, mem ! I’m thinkin’ mair aboot ill women, at this 
prasent,” said Malcolm. “ Maybe there’s no sic a thing, but yon’s 
unco like ane. As bonny a sawmon-troot ’s ever ye saw, mem ! 
It’s a’ I’m cawpable o’ to baud ohn cursed that foul tyke o’ hers.” 

“ Hoot, laddie ! haud yer tongue.” 

“ Ay will I. I’m na gaun to du ’t, ye ken. But sic a fine 
troot ’s that — the verra ane ye wad hae likit, mem !” 

“ Never ye min’ the troot. There’s mair whaur that cam frae. 
What anger’t her at ye?” 

“ Naething mair nor that I bude to gie Mistress Courthope the 
first wale (choice) o’ my fish.” 

“ The wuman’s no worth yer notice, ’cep to haud oot o’ her 
gait, laddie ; an’ that ye had better luik till, for she’s no canny. 
Dinna ye anger her again gien ye can help it. She has an ill luik, 
an’ I canna bide her. — Hae, there’s yer siller. Jean, tak in this fish.” 

During the latter part of the conversation they had been 
standing at the door, while Miss Horn ferreted the needful pence 
from a pocket under her gown. She now entered, but as Malcolm 
waited for J ean to take the fish, she turned on the threshold, and 
said, — 

“ W<r4? je no like to see her, Ma’colm? — A guid frien’ she was 
to you, sae lang’s she was here,” she added after a short pause. 

The youth hesitated. 

“ I never saw a corp i’ my life, mem, an’ I’m jist some feared/ 
he said, after another brief silence. 

“ Hoot, laddie !” returned Miss Horn, in a somewhat offended 
tone. — “ That’ll be what comes o’ haein’ feelin’s. A bonny corp ’3 
the boncLi^st thing in creation, — an’ that quaiet ! — Eh ! sic a heap o’ 


THE SALMON-TROUT. 


51 


them as there has been sin' Awbel," she went on — “ an' ilk 
ane o’ them luikin, as gien there never had been anither but 
itsel’i Ye oucht to see a corp, Ma’colm. Ye’ll hae 't to du afore 
ye’re ane yersel,’ an' ve’ll never see a bonnier nor my Grizel.” 

“ Be ’t to yerwull, mem,” said Malcolm resignedly. 

At once she led the way, and he followed her in silence up 
the stair and into the dead-chamber. 

There on the white bed lay the long, black, mis-shapen thing 
she had called* “ the bit boxie : ” and with a strange sinking at 
the heart, Malcolm approached it. 

Miss Horn’s hand came from behind him, and withdrew a 
covering ; there lay a vision lovely indeed to behold ! — a fixed 
evanescence — a listening stillness — awful, yet with a look of 
entreaty, at once resigned and unyielding, that strangely drew 
the heart of Malcolm. He saw a low white forehead, large 
eyeballs, upheaving closed lids, finely-modelled features of 
which the tightened skin showed all the delicacy, and a mouth 
of suffering whereon the vanishing Psyche had left the shadow 
of the smile with which she awoke. The tears gathered in his 
eyes, and Miss Horn saw them. 

“ Ye maun lay yer han’ upo’ her, Ma’colm,” she said. “ Ye 
sud aye touch the deid, to haud ye ohn dreamed aboot them.” 

“ I wad be laith,” answered Malcolm ; “ she wad be ower 
bonny a dream to miss. — Are they a’ like that?” he added, 
speaking under his breath. 

“ Na, ’deed no ! ” replied Miss Horn, with mild indignation. 
w ‘ Wad ye expec’ Bawby Cat’nach to luik like that, no ? — I beg 
yer pardon for mentionin’ the wuman, my dear,” she added 
with sudden divergence, bending towards the still face, and 
speaking in a tenderly apologetic tone ; “ I ken weel ye canna 
bide the verra name o’ her ; but it’s be the last time ye s’ hear ’t 
to a’ eternity, my doo.” Then turning again to Malcolm. — 
“ Lay yer han’ upon herbroo, I tell ye,” she said. 

“ I durna,” replied the youth, still under his breath ; “my 
han’s are no clean. I wadna for the warl’ touch her wi’ fishy 
han’s.” 

The same moment, moved by a sudden impulse, whose irre- 
sistibleness was veiled in Lis unconsciousness, be bent down, 
and put his lips to the forehead. 

As suddenly he started back erect, with dismay on every 
feature. 

“ Eh. mem ! ” he cried in an agonized whisper, “ she’s dooms 
cauld ! ” 

** What sud she be ? ” retorted Miss Horn, “ Wad ye na<? 
ner beeried warm ? ” 


52 


MALCOLM . 


He followed her from the room in silence, with the sense of 
a faint sting on his lips. She led him into her parlor, and gave 
him a glass of wine. 

“ Ye’ll come to thebeerial upo’ Setterday ? ” she asked, half 
inviting, half enquiring. 

“ I’m sorry to say, mem, ’at I canna,” he answered. “ I 
promised Maister Graham to tak the schule for him, an’ lat him 
gang.” 

“ Weel, weel ! Mr. Graham’s obleeged to ye, nae doobt, an’ 
we canna help it. Gie my compliments to yer gran’father.” 

‘‘I’ll du that, mem. He’ll be sair pleased, for he’s unco 
gratefu’ for only sic attention,” said Malcolm, and with the 
words took his leave. 


CHAPTER X. 

THE FUNERAL. 

That night the weather changed, and grew cloudy and cold. 
Saturday morning broke drizzly and dismal. A northeast 
wind tore off the tops of the drearily tossing billows. All was 
gray — enduring, hopeless gray. Along the coast the waves 
kept roaring on the sands, persistent and fateful ; the Scaur- 
nose was one mass of foaming white ; and in the caves still 
haunted by the tide, the bellowing was like that of thunder. 

Through the drizzle-shot wind and the fog blown in shreds 
from the sea, a large number of the most respectable of the male 
population of the burgh, clothed in Sunday gloom deepened by 
the crape on their hats, made their way to Miss Horn’s, for, de- 
spite her rough manners, she was held in high repute. It was 
only such as had reason to dread the secret communication be- 
tween closet and house-top that feared her tongue ; if she 
spoke loud, she never spoke false, or backbit in the dark. 
What chiefly conduced, however, to the respect in which she was 
held, was that she was one of their own people, her father having 
died minister of the parish some twenty years before. Com- 
paratively little was known of her deceased cousin, who had 
been much of an invalid, and had mostly kept in the house, but 
all had understood that Miss Horn was greatly attached to 
her ; and it was for the sake of the living mainly that the dead 
was thus honoured. 

As the prayer drew to a close, the sounds of trampling and 


THE FUNERAL. 


53 


scuffling feet bore witness that Watty Witherspail and his assis- 
tants were carrying the coffin down the stair. Soon the company 
rose to follow it, and trooping out, arranged themselves behind 
the hearse, which, horrid with nodding plumes and gold and 
bla ck panelling, drew away from the door to make room for them. 

J ust as they were about to move off, to the amazement of the 
company and the few onlookers who, notwithstanding the weather, 
stood around to represent the commonalty, Miss Horn herself, 
solitary, in a long black cloak and somewhat awful bonnet, 
issued, and made her way through the mourners until she stood 
immediately behind the hearse, by the side of Mr Cairns, the 
parish minister. The next moment, Watty Witherspail, who had 
his station at the further side of the hearse, arriving somehow at 
a knowledge of the apparition, came round by the horses’ heads, 
and with a look of positive alarm at the glaring infringement of 
time-honoured customs, addressed her in half whispered tones 
expostulatory : 

‘‘Ye’ll never be thinkin’ o’ gaum’ yersef, mem !” he said. 

“ What for no, Watty, I wad like to ken,” growled Miss Horn 
from the vaulted depths of her bonnet. 

“ The like was never hard tell o’ !” returned Watty, with the 
dismay of an orthodox undertaker, righteously jealous of all inno- 
vation. 

“ It’ll be to tell o’ hencefurth,” rejoined Miss Horn, who in her 
risen anger spoke aloud, caring nothing who heard her. “ Daur 
ye preshume, Watty Witherspaill,” she went on, “ for no rizzon 
but that I ga’e you the job, an’ unnertook to pay ye for’t — an’ 
that far abune its market value, — daur ye preshume, I say, to 
dictate to me what I’m to du an’ what I’m no to du anent the 
maitter in han’ ? Think ye I hae been a mither to the puir yoong 
thing for sae mony a year to lat her gang awa’ her lane at the 
lar wi’ the likes o’ you for company ! 

“ Hoot, mem ! there’s the minister at yer elbuck.” 

“ I tell ye, ye’re but a wheen rouch men-fowk ! There’s no a 
wuman amon’ ye to haud things dacent, ’cep I gang mysel’. I’m 
no beggin’ the minister’s pardon ather. 77/ gzrtg, I maun see 
my puir Grizel till her last bed.” 

“ I dread it may be too much for your feelings, Miss Horn,” 
said the minister, who being an ambitious young man of lowly 
origin, and very shy of the ridiculous, did not in the least wish 
her company. 

“ Feelin’s !” exclaimed Miss Horn, in a tone of indignant 
repudiation ; “ I’m gauin’ to du what’s richt I s’ gang, and gien 
ye dinna like my company, Mr Cairns, ye can gang hame, an’ I 


54 


MALCOLM , . 


s’ gang withoot ye. Gien she sud happen to be luikin doon, she 
sanna see me wantin’ at the last o’ her. But I s’ mak’ no wark 
aboot it. I s’ no putt mysel’ ewer forret.” 

And ere the minister could utter another syllable, she had left 
her place to go to the rear. The same instant the procession 
began to move, corpse-marshalled, towards the grave ; and step- 
ping aside, she stood erect, sternly eyeing the irregular ranks of 
two and three and four as they passed her, intending to bring up 
the rear alone. But already there was one in that solitary posi- 
tion : with bowed head, Alexander Graham walked last and 
single. The moment he caught sight of Miss Horn, he perceived 
her design, and, lifting his hat, offered his arm. She took it almost 
eagerly, and together they followed in silence, through the gusty 
wind and monotonous drizzle. 

The school-house was close the churchyard. An instant 
hush fell upon the scholars when the hearse darkened the win- 
dows, lasting while the horrible thing slowly turned to enter the 
iron gates, — a deep hush, as if a wave of the eternal silence which 
rounds all our noises had broken across its barriers. The mad 
laird, who had been present all the morning, trembled from head 
to foot ; yet rose and went to the door with a look of strange, sub- 
dued eagerness. When Miss Horn and Mr Graham had passed 
into the churchyard, he followed. 

With the bending of uncovered heads, in a final gaze of leave- 
taking, over the coffin at rest in the bottom of the grave, all that 
belonged to the ceremony of burial was fulfilled ; but the two 
facts that no one left the churchyard, although the wind blew and 
the rain fell, until the mound of sheltering earth was heaped high 
over the dead, and that the hands of many friends assisted with 
spade and shovel, did much to compensate for the lack of a 
service. 

As soon as this labour was ended, Mr Graham again offered 
his arm to Miss Horn, who had stood in perfect calmness watch- 
ing the whole with her eagle’s-eyes. But although she accepted 
his offer, instead of moving towards the gate, she kept her posi- 
tion in the attitude of a hostess who will follow her friends. They 
were the last to go from the churchyard. When they reached 
the schoolhouse she would have had Mr Graham leave her, but 
he insisted on seeing her home. Contrary to her habit she 
yielded, and they slowly followed the retiring company. 

“ Safe at last ! ” half-sighed Miss Horn, as they entered the 
town — her sole remark on the way. 

Rounding a corner, they came upon Mrs Catanach standing at 
a neighbour’s door, gazing out upon nothing, as was her wont at 


the funeral. 


55 

times, but talking to some one in the house behind her. Miss 
Horn turned her head aside as she passed. A look of low. 
malicious, half-triumphant cunning lightened across the puffy face 
of the howdy. She cocked one bushy eyebrow, setting one eye 
wide open, drew down the other eyebrow, nearly closing the eye 
under it, and stood looking after them until they were out of 
sight. Then turning her head over her shoulder, she burst into 
a laugh, softly husky with the general flabbiness of her corporeal 
conditions. 

“What ails ye, Mistress Catanach?” cried a voice from 
within. 

“Sic a couple’s yon twasum wad mak!” she replied, again 
bursting into gelatinous laughter. 

“ Wha, than ? I canna lea’ my milk-parriteh to come an’ 
luik.” 

“ Ow ! jist Meg Horn, the auld kail-runt, an’ Sanny Graham, 
the stickit minister. I wad like weel to be at the beddin’ o’ them. 
Eh ! the twa heids o’ them upon ae bcwster !” 

And chuckling a low chuckle, Mrs Catanach moved for her 
own door. 

As soon as the churchyard was clear of the funeral-train, the 
mad laird peeped from behind a tall stone, gazed cautiously 
around him, and then with slow steps came and stood over the 
new-made grave, where the sexton was now laying the turf, “ to 
mak a’ snod (trim) for the Sawbath.” 

“Whaur is she gane till?” he murmured to himself. — He 
could generally speak better when merely uttering his thoughts 
without attempt at communication. — “ I dinna ken whaur I cam 
frae, an’ I dinna ken whaur she’s gane till ; but whan I gang my- 
sel’, maybe I’ll ken baith. — I dinna ken, I dinna ken, I dinna 
ken whaur I cam frae.” 

Thus muttering, so lost in the thoughts that originated them 
that he spoke the words mechanically, he left the churchyard and re- 
turned to the school, where, undei the superintendence of Malcolm, 
everything had been going on in the usual Saturday fashion — the 
work of the day which closed the week’s labours, being to repeat 
a certain number of questions of the Shorter Catechism (which 
term, alas ! included the answers), and next to buttress them 
with a number of suffeimj? caryatids, as it were — texts of Scrip- 
ture, I mean, first petrified and then dragged into the service. 
Before Mr Graham returned, every one had done his part except 
Sheltie, who, excellent at asking questions for himself, had a very 
poor memory for the answers to those of other people, and was 
in consequence often a keepie-in . He did not generally heed it 


56 


MALCOLM, 


much, however, for the master was not angry with him on such 
occasions, and they gave him an opportunity of asking in his turn 
a multitude of questions of his own. 

When he entered, he found Malcolm reading The Tempest , and 
Sheltie sitting ip the middle of the waste schoolroom, with his 
elbows on the Qes*£ before him, and his head and the Shorter 
Catechism between them ; while in the farthest corner sat Mr 
Stewart, with his eyes fixed on the ground, murmuring his answer- 
less questions to himself. 

“ Come up, Sheltie,” said Mr Graham, anxious to let the boy 
go. “Which of the questions did you break down in to-day?” 

“ Please, sir, I cudna rest i’ my grave till the resurrection,” an- 
swered Sheltie, with but a dim sense of the humour involved in 
the reply. 

“ ‘ What benefits do believers receive from Christ at death ?’ * 
said Mr Graham, putting the question with a smile. 

“ * The souls of believers are at their death made perfect in 
holiness, and do immediately pass into glory ; and their bodies, 
being still united to Christ, do rest in their graves till the resur- 
rection,’ ” replied Sheltie, now with perfect accuracy ; whereupon 
the master, fearing the outbreak of a torrent of counter-questions, 
made haste to dismiss him. 

“ That’ll do, Sheltie,” he said. " Run home to your dinner.” 

Sheltie shot from the room like a shell from a mortar. 

He had barely vanished when Mr Stewart rose and came 
slowly from his corner, his legs appearing to tremble under the 
weight of his hump, which moved fitfully up and down in his 
futile attempts to utter the word resurrection . As he advanced, 
he kept heaving one shoulder forward, as if he would fain bring 
his huge burden to the front, and hold it out in mute appeal to 
his instructor ; but before reaching him he suddenly stopped, 
lay down on the floor on his back, and commenced rolling from 
side to side, with moans and complaints. Mr Graham interpreted 
the action into the question — 'How was such a body as his to rest 
in its grave till the resurrection — perched thus on its own back 
in the coffin ? All the answer he could think of was to lay hold 
of his hand, lift him, and point upwards. The poor fellow shook 
his head, glanced over his shoulder at his hump, and murmured 
“ Heavy, heavy ! ” seeming to imply that it would be hard for 
him to rise and ascend at the last day. 

He had doubtless a dim notion that all his trouble had to 
do with his hump. 


THE OLD CHURCH 


57 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE OLD CHURCH. 

The next day, the day of the Resurrection, rose glorious from its 
sepulchre of sea-fog and drizzle. It had poured all night long, 
but at sunrise the clouds had broken and scattered, and the air 
was the purer for the cleansing rain, while the earth shone with 
that peculiar lustre which follows the weeping which has endured 
its appointed night. The larks were at it again, singing as if 
their hearts would break for joy as they hovered in brooding 
exultation over the song of the future ; for their nests beneath 
hoarded a wealth of larks for summers to come. Especially 
about the old church — half-buried in the ancient trees of Lossie 
House, the birds that day were jubilant; their throats seemed 
too narrow to let out the joyful air that filled all their hollow 
bones and quills : they sang as if they must sing, or choke with 
too much gladness. Beyond the short spire and its shining cock, 
rose the balls and stars and arrowy vanes of the House, glittering 
in gold and sunshine. 

The inward hush of the Resurrection, broken only by the pro- 
phetic birds, the poets of the groaning and travailing creation, 
held time and space as in a trance ; and the centre from which 
radiated both the hush and the carolling expectation seemed to 
Alexander Graham to be the churchyard in which he was now 
walking in the cool of the morning. It was more carefully kept 
then most Scottish church-yards, and yet was not too trim : 
Nature had a word in the affair — was allowed her part of mourn- 
ing, in long grass and moss and the crumbling away of stone. 
The wholesomeness of decay, which both in nature and humanity 
is but the miry road back to life, was not unrecognized here ; 
there was nothing of the hideous attempt to hide death in the 
garments of life. The master walked about gently, now stopping 
to read some well-known inscription and ponder for a moment 
over the words; and now wandering across the stoneless mounds, 
content to be forgotten by all but those who loved the departed. 
At length he seated himself on a slab by the side of the mound 
that rose but yesterday : it was sculptured with symbols of decay 
— needless surely where the originals lay about the mouth of every 
newly opened grave, and as surely ill-befitting the precincts of a 
church whose indwelling gospel is of life victorious over death ! 

What are these stones,” he said to himself, “ but monuments 


MALCOLM. 


58 

to oblivion ? They are not memorials of the dead, but memorials 
of the forgetfulness of the living. How vain it is to send a 
poor forsaken name, like the title page of a lost book, down 
the careless stream of time 1 Let me serve my generation, and 
let God remember me!” 

The morning wore on ; the sun rose higher and higher. He 
drew from his pocket the Nosce Teipsum of Sir J ohn Davies, and 
was still reading, in quiet enjoyment of the fine logic of the 
lawyer-poet, when he heard the church key, in the trembling hand 
of Jonathan Auld, the sexton, jar feebly battling with the reluc- 
tant lock. Soon the people began to gather, mostly in groups 
and couples. At length came solitary Miss Horn, whom the 
neighbours, from respect to her sorrow, had left to walk alone. 
But Mr Graham went to meet her, and accompanied her into the 
church. 

It was a cruciform building, as old as the vanished monastery, 
and the burial place of generations of noble blood ; the dust of 
royalty even lay under its floor. A knight of stone reclined 
cross-legged in a niche with an arched Norman canopy in one of 
the walls, the rest of which was nearly encased in large tablets of 
white marble, for at his foot lay the ashes of barons and earls 
whose title was extinct, and whose lands had been inherited by 
the family of Lossie. Inside as well as outside of the church the 
ground had risen with the dust of generations, so that the walls 
were low ; and heavy galleries having been erected in parts, the 
place was filled with shadowy recesses and haunted with adee ms. 
From a window in the square pew where he sat, so small and 
low that he had to bend his head to look out of it, the s«r nool* 
master could see a rivulet of sunshine, streaming through between 
two upright grave-stones, and glorifying the long grass of a 
neglected mound that lay close to the wall under the wintiy chip 
from the eaves : when he raised his head, the church looked very 
dark. The best way there to preach the Resurrection, he thought, 
would be to contrast the sepulchral gloom of the church, its 
dreary psalms and drearier sermons, with the sunlight on the 
graves, the lark-filled sky, and the wind blowing where it listed. 
But although the minister was a young man of the commonest 
order, educated to the church that he might eat bread, hence a 
mere willing slave to the beck of his lord and master, the patron, 
and but a parrot in the pulpit, the schoolmaster not only endea- 
voured to pour his feelings and desires into the mould of his 
prayers, but listened to the sermon with a countenance that 
revealed no distaste for the weak and unsavoury broth ladled out 
to him to nourish his soul withal When however the service — - 


THE OLD CHURCH 


59 


though whose purposes the affair could be supposed to serve. 
except those of Mr Cairns himself, would have been a curious 
question — was over, he did breathe a sigh of relief ; and when 
he stepped out into the sun and wind which had been shining 
and blowing all the time of the dreary ceremony, he wondered 
whether the larks might not have had the best of it in the God- 
praising that had been going on for two slow-paced hours. Yet, 
having been so long used to the sort of thing, he did not mind 
it half so much as his friend Malcolm, who found the Sunday 
observances an unspeakable weariness to both flesh and spirit. 

On the present occasion, however, Malcolm did not find the 
said observances dreary, for he observed nothing but the vision 
which radiated from the dusk of the small gallery forming Lossie- 
pew, directly opposite the Norman canopy and stone crusader. 
Unconventional, careless girl as Lady Florimel had hitherto 
shown herself to him, he saw her sit that morning like the 
proudest of her race, alone, and, to all appearance, unaware of a 
single other person’s being in the church besides herself. She 
manifested no interest in what was going on, nor indeed felt any 
— how could she ? never parted her lips to sing ; sat during the 
prayer ; and throughout the sermon seemed to Malcolm not 
once to move her eyes from the carved crusader. When all was 
over, she still sat motionless — sat until the last old woman had 
hobbled out. Then she rose, walked slowly from the gloom of 
the church, flashed into the glow of the churchyard, gleamed 
across it to a private door in the wall, which a servant held for 
her, and vanished. If, a moment after, the notes of a merry song 
invaded the ears of those who yet lingered, who could dare 
suspect that proudly sedate damsel thus suddenly breaking the 
ice of her public behaviour ? 

For a mere school-girl she had certainly done the lady’s part 
well. What she wore I do not exactly know; nor would it 
perhaps be well to describe what might seem grotesque to such 
prejudiced readers as have no judgment beyond the fashions of 
the day. But I will not let pass the opportunity of reminding 
them how sadly old-fashioned we of the present hour also took 
in the eyes of those equally infallible judges who have been in 
dread procession towards us ever since we began to be — our 
posterity — judges who perhaps will doubt with a smile whether 
we even knew what love was, or ever had a dream of the 
grandeur they are on the point of grasping. But at least bethink 
yourselves, dear posterity : we have not ceased because you have 
begun. 

Out of the church the blind Duncan strode with long, con* 


6o 


MALCOLM. 


fident strides. He had no staff to aid him, for he never carried 
one when in his best clothes ; but he leaned proudly on Malcolm’s 
arm, if one who walked so erect could be said to lean. He had 
adorned his bonnet the autumn before with a sprig of the large 
purple heather, but every bell had fallen from it, leaving only the 
naked spray, pitiful analogue of the whole withered exterior of 
which it formed part. His sporran, however, hid the stained 
front of his kilt, and his Sunday coat had been new within ten 
years — the gift of certain ladies of Portlossie, some of whom, to 
whose lowland eyes the kilt was obnoxious, would have added a 
pair of trowsers, had not Miss Horn stoutly opposed them, con- 
fident that Duncan would regard the present as an insult. And 
she was right; for rather than wear anything instead of the 
philibeg, Duncan would have plaited himself one with his own 
blind fingers out of an old sack. Indeed, although the treivs were 
never at any time unknown in the Highlands, Duncan had 
always regarded them as Geminate, and especially in his low- 
land exile would have looked upon the wearing of them as a 
disgrace to his highland birth. 

“ Tat wass a fery coot sairmon to-day, Malcolm,” he said, as 
they stepped from the churchyard upon the road. 

Malcolm, knowing well whither conversation on the subject 
would lead, made no reply. His grandfather, finding him silent, 
iterated his remark, with the addition — 

“ Put how could it pe a paad one, you’ll pe thinking, my poy, 
when he’d pe hating such a text to keep him straight.” 

Malcolm continued silent, for a good many people were within 
hearing, whom he did not wish to see amused with the remarks 
certain to follow any he could make. But Mr Graham, who 
happened to be walking near the old man on the other side, out 
of pure politeness made a partial response. 

“ Yes, Mr MacPhail,” he said, “ it was a grand text” 

“ Yes, and it wass’ll pe a cran’ sairmon,” persisted Duncan. 
“ ‘ Fenchence is mine — I will repay/ Ta Lord loves fench- 
ence. It’s a fine thing, fenchence. To make ta wicked know 
tat tey’ll pe peing put men ! Yes ; ta Lord will slay ta wicked. 
Ta Lord will gif ta honest man fenchence upon his enemies. 
It wass a cran’ sairmon ! ” 

“ Don’t you think vengeance a very dreadful thing, Mr Mac- 
Phail ? ” said the schoolmaster. 

“ Yes, for ta von tat’ll pe in ta wrong— I wish ta fenchence 
was mine ! ” he added with a loud sigh. 

“ But the Lord doesn’t think any of us fit to be trusted with it, 
and so keeps it to himself, you see.” 


THE OLD CHURCH. 


6f 


“Yes; and tat’ll pe pecause it ’ll pe too coot to be gifing to 
another. . And some people would be waik of heart, and be 
letting teir enemies co.” 

“ I suspect it’s for the opposite reason, Mr MacPhail : — we 
wrild go much too far, making no allowances, causing the 
innocent to suffer along with the guilty, neither giving fair play 
nor avoiding cruelty, — and indeed ” 

“ No fear ! ” interrupted Duncan eagerly, — “no fear, when ta 
wrong wass as larch as Morven !” 

In the sermon there had not been one word as to St Paul’s 
design in quoting the text. It had been but a theatrical setting 
forth of the vengeance of God upon sin, illustrated with several 
common tales of the discovery of murder by strange means — a 
sermon after Duncan’s own heart ; and nothing but the way in 
which he now snuffed the wind with head thrown back and 
nostrils dilated, could have given an adequate idea of how much 
he enjoyed the recollection of it. 

Mr Graham had for many years believed that he must have 
some personal wrongs to brood over, — wrongs, probably, to which 
were to be attributed his loneliness and exile ; but of such 
Duncan had never spoken, uttering no maledictions excej.1 
against the real or imagined foes of his family * 

The master placed so little value on any possible results of 
mere argument, and had indeed so little faith in any words except 
such as came hot from the heart, that he said no more, but, with 
an invitation to Malcolm to visit him in the evening, wished them 
good day, and turned in at his own door. 

The two went slowly on towards the sea-toww. The road was 
speckled with home-goers, single and in groups, holding a quiet 
Sunday pace to their dinners. Suddenly Duncan grasped Mal- 

* What added to the likelihood of Mr Graham’s conjecture was the fact, 
well enough known to him, though to few lowlanders besides, that revenge is 
not a characteristic of the Gael. Whatever instances of it may have appeared, 
and however strikingly they may have been worked up in fiction, such belong 
to the individual and not to the race. A remarkable proof of this occurs in 
the history of the family of Glenco itself. What remained of it after the 
massacre in 1689, rose in 1745, and joined the forces of Prince Charles 
Edward. Arriving in the neighbourhood of the residence of Lord Stair, 
whose grandfather had been one of the chief instigators of the massacre, the 
prince took special precautions lest the people of Glenco should wreak in- 
herited vengeance on the earl. But they were so indignant at being supposed 
capable of visiting on the innocent the guilt of their ancestors, that it was with 
much difficulty they were prevented from forsaking the standard of the prince, 
and returning at once to their homes. Perhaps a yet stronger proof is the 
fact ; fully asserted by one Gaelic scholar at least, that their literature contains 
nothing to foster feelings of revenge. 


6 2 


MALCOLM. 


colm’s arm with the energy of perturbation, almost of fright, and 
said in a loud whisper : 

“ Tere’ll be something efil not far from her, Malcolm, my son ! 
Look apout, look apout, and take care how you’ll pe leading her.” 

Malcolm looked about, and replied, pressing Duncan’s arm, 
and speaking in a low voice, far less audible than his whisper, 

“ There’s naebody near, daddy — naebody but the howdie-wife.” 

“ What howdie-wife do you mean, Malcolm ? ” 

“ Hoot ! Mistress Catanach, ye ken. Dinna lat her hear ye.” 

u I had a feeshion, Malcolm — one moment, and no more ; ta 
iarkness closed arount it : I saw a ped, Malcolm, and ” 

“ Wheesht, wheesht daddy ! ” pleaded Malcolm importunately. 
* She hears ilka word ye’re say in’. She’s awfu’ gleg, and she’s as 
poozhonous as an edder. Haud j*er tongue, daddy ; for guid-sake 
haud yer tongue.” 

The old man yielded, grasping Malcolm’s arm, and quickening 
his pace, though his breath came hard, as through the gathering 
folds of asthma. Mrs. Catanach also quickened her pace, and 
came gliding along the grass by the side of the road, noiseless as 
the adder to which Malcolm had likened her, and going much 
faster than she seemed. Her great round body looked a persis- 
tent type of her calling, and her arms seemed to rest in front of 
her as lapon a ledge. In one hand she carried a small bible, 
round which was folded her pocket-handkerchief, and in the other 
a bunch of southern-wood and rosemary. She wore a black silk 
gown, a wnite slnvd, and a great straw bonnet with yellow rib- 
bons in huge bvws, and looked the very pattern of Sunday 
respectability , bu? her black eyebrows gloomed ominous, and an 
evil smile shadowed about the corners of her mouth as she passed 
without turning her head or taking the least notice of them. 
Duncan shuddered, and breathed yet harder, but seemed to 
recover as she increased the distance between them. They 
walked the rest of the way in silence, however ; and even after 
they reached home, Duncan made no allusion to his late discom- 
posure. 

“ What was’t ye thocht ye saw, as we cam frae the kirk, daddy? ” 
asked Malcolm when they were seated at their dinner of broiled 
mackerel and boiled potatoes. 

“ In other times she’ll pe hafing such feeshions often, Malcolm, 
my son,” he returned, avoiding an answer. “ Like other pards 
of her race she would pe seeing — in the speerit, where old Tuncan 
can see. And she’ll pe telling you, Malcolm — peware of tat 
voman ; for ta voman was thinking pad thoughts ; and tat will pe 
what make her shutter and shake, my son, as she’ll pe ccing py.” 


THE CHURCHYARD 


«3 


CHAPTER XI L 

THE CHURCHYARD. 

On Sundays, Malcolm was always more or less annoyed by the 
obtrusive presence of his arms and legs, accompanied by a vague 
feeling that, at any moment, and no warning given, they might, 
with some insane and irrepressible flourish, break the Sabbath on 
their own account, and degrade him in the eyes of his fellow- 
townsmen, who seemed all silently watching "how he bore the 
restraints of the holy day It must be conceded, however, that 
the discomfort had quite as much to do with his Sunday clothes 
as with the Sabbath-day, and that it interfered but little with an 
altogether peculiar calm which appeared to him to belong in its 
own right to the Sunday, whether its light flowed in the sunny 
cataracts of June, or oozed through the spongy clouds of Novem- 
ber. As he walked again to the Alton, or Old Town in the even- 
ing, the filmy floats of white in the lofty blue, the droop of the 
long dark grass by the side of the short brown corn, the shadows 
pointing like all lengthening shadows towards the quarter of hope, 
the yellow glory filling the air and paling the green below, the 
unseen larks hanging aloft — like air-pitcher-plants that over- 
flowed in song — like electric jars emptying themselves of the 
sweet thunder of bliss in the flashing of wings and the trembling 
of melodious throats ; these were indeed of the summer, but the 
cup of rest had been poured out upon them; the Sabbath 
brooded like an embodied peace over the earth, and under its 
wings they grew sevenfold peaceful — with a peace that might be 
felt, like the hand of a mother pressed upon the half-sleeping 
child. The rusted iron cross on the eastern gable of the old 
church stood glowing lustreless in the westering sun ; while the 
gilded vane, whose business was the wind, creaked radiantly this 
way and that, in the flaws from the region of the sunset : its 
shadow flickered soft on the new grave, where the grass of the 
wounded sod was drooping. Again seated on a neighbour stone, 
Malcolm found his friend. 

“ See,” said the schoolmaster as the fisnerman sat down beside 
him, “ how the shadow from one grave stretches like an arm to 
embrace another ! In this light the churchyard seems the very 
birthplace of shadows : see them flowing out of the tombs as from 
fountains, to overflow the world ! Does the morning or the 
evening light suit such a place best, Malcolm ? ” 


64 


MALCOLM. 


The pupil thought for a while. 

" The evenin' licht, sir,” he answered at length ; “ for ye see 
the sun’s deem’ like, an’ deith’s like a fa’in asleep, an’ the grave’s 
the bed, an’ the sod’s the bed-claes, an’ there’s a lang nicht to the 
fore.” 

“ Are ye sure o’ that, Malcolm ? ” 

“ It’s th^ wye folk thinks an’ says aboot it, sir.” 

“ Or maybe doesna think, an’ only says ? ” 

“ Maybe, sir ; I dinna ken.” 

“ Come here, Malcolm,” said Mr Graham, and t^ok him by 
the arm, and led him towards the east end of the church, where a 
few tombstones were crowded against the wall, as if they would 
press close to a place they might not enter. 

“ Read that,” he said, pointing to a flat stone, where every 
hollow letter was shown in high relief by the growth in it of a 
lovely moss. The rest of the stone was rich in gray and green 
and brown lichens, but only in the letters grew the bright moss : 
the inscription stood as it were in the hand of nature herself — 
“ He is noi here; he is risen” 

While Malcolm gazed, trying to think what his master would 
have him think, the latter resumed. 

“ If he is risen — if the sun is up, Malcolm — then the morning 
and not the evening is the season for the place of tombs ; the 
morning when the shadows are shortening and separating, not 
the evening when they are growing all into one. I used to love 
the churchyard best in the evening, when the past was more to 
me than the future ; now I visit it almost every bright summer 
morning, and only occasionally at night.” 

“But, sir, isna deith a dreidfu’ thing?” said Malcolm. 

“ That depends on whether a man regards it as his fate, or as 
the will of a perfect God. Its obscurity is its dread ; but if God 
be light, then death itself must be full of splendour — a splendour 
probably too keen for our eyes to receive.” 

“ But there’s the deein itsel* : isna that fearsome ? It’s that I 
wad be fleyed at” 

“ I don’t see why it should be. It’s the want of a God that makes 
it dreadful, and you will be greatly to blame, Malcolm, if you 
haven’t found your God by the time you have to die.” 

They were startled by a gruff voice near them. The speaker 
was hidden by a corner of the church. 

“ Ay, she’s weel happit {covered)” it said. “But a grave never 
luiks richt wantin’ a stane, an’ her auld cousin wad hear o’ nane 
bein’ laid ower her. I said it micht be set up at her heid, whaur 
she wad never £n’ the weicht o’ ’t; but na, na ! nane o’ ’t for her J 


THE CHURCHYARD . 65 

She’s ane ’at maun tak her ain gait, say the ither thing wha 

likes.” 

It was Wattie Witherspail who spoke — a thin shaving of a man, 
with a deep, harsh, indeed startling voice. 

“An’ what ailed her at a stane?” returned the voice of 
Jonathan Auldbuird, the sexton. “ — Nae doobt it wad be the 
expense?” 

“Amna I tellin’ ye what it was? Deil a bit o’ the expense 
cam intil the calcalation ! The auld maiden’s nane sae close as 
fowk ’at disna ken her wad mak her oot I ken her weel. She 
wadna hae a stane laid upon her as gien she wanted to haud her 
doon, puir thing! She said, says she, ‘The yerd’s eneuch upc’ 
the tap o’ her, wantin’ that !”’ 

“ It micht be some sair, she wad be thinkin’ doobtless, for sic 
a waik worn cratur to lift whan the trump was blawn,” said the 
sexton, with the feeble laugh of one who doubts the reception of 
his wit 

“Weel, I div whiles think,” responded Wattie, — but it was 
impossible from his tone to tell whether or not he spoke in 
earnest, — “ ’at maybe my boxies is a wheen ower weel made for 
the use they’re pitten till. They sudna be that ill to rive — gien 
a’ be true at the minister says. Ye see, we dinna ken whan that 
day may come, an’ there may na be time for the wat an’ the 
worm to ca {drive) the boords apairt.” 

** H«.*ot.s, man! it’s no your lang nails nor yet yer heidit screws 
’1 hand doon the redeemt, gien the jeedgement war the morn’s 
jnotmnV’ said the sexton; “an’ for the lave, they wad be glaid 
eneuch to bide whaur they are ; but they’ll a’ be howkit oot, — 
fear na ye that.” 

“The Lord grant a blessed uprisin’ to you an’ me, Jonathan, 
at that day!” said Wattie, in the tone of one who felt himseli 
uttering a more than ordinarily religious sentiment ; and on the 
word followed the sound of their retreating footsteps. 

“ How close together may come the solemn and the grotesque! 
the ludicrous and the majestic!” said the schoolmaster. “ Here, 
to us lingering in awe about the doors beyond which lie the gulfs 
of the unknown— to our very side come the wright and the grave- 
digger with their talk of the strength of coffins and the judgment 
of the living God ! ” 

“ I hae whiles thoucht mysel’, sir,” said Malcolm, “ it was gey 
strange-like to hae a wuman o’ the mak o’ Mistress Catanach 
sittin’ at the receipt o’ bairns, like the gate-keeper o’ the ither 
warl’, wi’ the hasp o’ ’t in her han’ : it doesna promise ower weel 
for them ’at she lats in. An’ nco ye hae pitten’t intil my heid 


66 


MALCOLM. 


that there’s Wattie Witherspail an’ Jonathan Auldbuird for 
the porters to open an’ lat a’ that’s left o’ ’s oot again ! 
Think o’ sic like haein’ sic a han’ in sic solemn maitters ! ” 

“ Indeed some of us have strange porters,” said Mr Graham, 
with a smile, “ both to open to us and to close behind us ! yet 
even in them lies the human nature, which, itself the embodiment 
of the unknown, wanders out through the gates of mystery, to 
wander back, it maybe, in a manner not altogether unlike that by 
which it came.” 

In contemplative moods, the schoolmaster spoke in a calm and 
loftily sustained style of book-English — quite another language 
from that he used when he sought to rouse the consciences of his 
pupils, and strangely contrasted with that in which Malcolm kept 
up his side of the dialogue. 

“ I houp, sir,” said the latter, “ it ’ll be nae sort o’ a celestial 
Mistress Catanach ’at ’ll be waiting for me o’ the ither side ; nor 
yet for my puir daddy, wha cud ill bide bein’ wamled aboot upo’ 
her knee.” 

Mr Graham laughed outright 

“If there be one to act the nurse,” he answered, “ I presume 
there will be one to take the mother’s part too.” 

“ But speakin’ o’ the grave, sir,” pursued Malcolm, “ I wiss ye 
cud drop a word ’at micht be o’ some comfort to my daddy. It’s 
plain to me, frae words he lats fa’ noo an’ than, that, instead o’ 
lea’in’ the warl’ ahint him whan he dees, he thinks to lie smorin’ 
an’ smocherin’ i’ the mools, clammy an’ weet, but a the^e, 
trimlin’ at the thocht o’ the suddent awfu’ roar an’ dill o' the 
brazen trumpet o’ the archangel. I wiss ye wad luik in an’ say 
something till him some nicht It’s nae guid mentionin’ ’t to the 
minister; he wad only gie a lauch an’ gang awa’. An’ gien ye 
cud jist slide in a word aboot forgiein’ his enemies, sir ! I made 
licht o’ the maitter to Mistress Courthope, ’cause she only maks 
him waur. She does weel wi’ what the minister pits intill her, 
but she has little o’ her ain to mix’t up wi’, an’ sae has but sma‘ 
weicht wi’ the likes o’ my gran’father. Only ye winna lat him 
think ye called on purpose.” 

They walked about the churchyard until the sun went down in 
what Mr Graham called the grave of his endless resurrection — 
the clouds on the one side bearing all the pomp of his funeral, 
the clouds on the other all the glory of his uprising ; and when 
now the twilight trembled filmy on the borders of the dark, the 
master once more seated himself beside the new grave, and 
motioned t:> Malcolm to take his place beside him : there they 
talked and dreamed together of the life to come, with many 


THE CHURCHYARD. 


67 


wanderings and returns ; and little as the boy knew of the ocean- 
depths of sorrowful experience in the bosom of his companion 
whence floated up the breaking bubbles of rainbow-hued thought, 
his words fell upon his heart — not to be provender for the birds 
of flitting fancy and airy speculation, but the seed — it might be 
decades ere it ripened — of a coming harvest of hope. At length 
the master rose and said, — 

“ Malcolm, I’m going in : I should like you to stay here half 
an hour alone, and then go straight home to bed.” 

For the master believed in solitude and silence. Say rather, 
he believed in God. What the youth might think, feel, or judge, 
he could not tell ; but he believed that when the Human is still, 
the Divine speaks to it,' because it is its own. 

Malcolm consented willingly. The darkness had deepened, 
the graves all but vanished ; an old setting moon appeared, boat- 
like over a great cloudy chasm, into which it slowly sank; blocks 
of cloud, with stars between, possessed the sky; all nature seemed 
thinking about death ; a listless wind began to blow, and Malcolm 
began to feel as if he were awake too long, and ought to be asleep 
— as if he were out in a dream — a dead man that had risen too 
soon or lingered too late — so lonely, so forsaken ! The wind, soft 
as it was, seemed to blow through his very soul. Yet something 
held him, and his half-hour was long over when he left the church- 
yard. 

As he walked home, the words of a German poem, a version 
of which Mr Graham had often repeated to him, and once more 
that same night, kept ringing in his heart: 

Uplifted is the stone. 

And all mankind arisen ! 

We men remain thine own. 

And vanished is our prison t 

What bitterest grief can stay 
Before thy golden cup, 

When earth and life give way, 

And with our Lord we sup ! 

To the marriage Death doth caJL 
The maidens are not slack ; 

The lamps are burning all — 

Of oil there is no lack. 

Afar I hear the walking 

Of thy great marriage-throng f 

And hark ! the stars are talking 
With human tone and tongue ! 

Courage ! for life is hasting 
To endless life away ; 


MALCOLM. 


The inner fire, unwasting, 
Transfigures our dull day ! 
See the stars melting, sinking. 
In life-wine, golden-bright ! 
We, of the splendour drinking. 
Shall grow to stars of light. 

Lost, lost are all our losses ; 

Love set for ever free ; 

The full life heaves and tosses 
Like an eternal sea J 
One endless living story i 
One poem spread abroad £ 
And the sun of all our glcrv 
Is the countenance* Jt God. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 

The next morning rose as lovely as if the mantle of the depart- 
ing Resurrection-day had fallen upon it. Malcolm rose with it, 
hastened to his boat, and pulled out into the bay for an hour or 
two’s fishing. Nearly opposite the great conglomerate rock at 
the western end of the dune, called the Bored Craig (. Perforated 
Crag) because of a large hole that went right through it, he be- 
gan to draw in his line. Glancing shoreward as he leaned over 
the gunwale, he spied at the foot of the rock, near the opening, 
a figure in white, seated, with bowed head. It was of course the 
mysterious lady, whom he had twice before seen thereabout at 
this unlikely if not untimely hour ; but with yesterday fresh in his 
mind, how could he fail to see in her an angel of the resurrection 
waiting at Irhe sepulchre to tell the glad news that the Lord was 
risen ? 

Many were the glances he cast shoreward as he re-baited his 
line, and, having thrown it again into the water, sat waiting until 
it should be time to fire the swivel. Still the lady sat on, in her 
whiteness a creature of the dawn, without even lifting her head. 
At length, having added a few more fishes to the little heap in 
the bottom of his boat, and finding his watch bear witness that 
the hour was at han 1. he seated himself on his thwart, and rowed 
lustily to the shore, his bosom filled with the hope of yet another 
sight of tiie lovely face, and another hearing of the sweet English 
voice and speech. But the very first time he turned his head to 
look, he saw but the sloping foot of the rock sink bare into the 




THE MARQUIS OF LOSS IE. 69 

shore. No white-robed angel sat at the gate cf the resurrection: 
no moving thing was visible on the far-vacant sands. When he 
reached the top of the dune, there was no living creature beyond 
but a few sheep feeding on the thin grass. He fired the gun, 
rowed back to the Seaton, ate his breakfast, and set out to cany 
the best of his fish to the House. 

The moment he turned the comer of her street, he saw Mrs 
Catanach standing on her threshold with her arms akimbo ; al- 
though she was always tidy, and her house spotlessly trim, she yet 
seemed for ever about the door, on the outlook at least, if not on 
the watch. 

“ What hae ye in yer bit basket the day, Ma’colm ? ” she said, 
with a peculiar smile, which was not sweet enough to restore 
vanished confidence. 

“ Naething guid for dogs,” answered Malcolm, and was walk- 
ing past. 

But she made a step forward, and, with a laugh meant to indi- 
cate friendly amusement, said, 

“ Let’s see what’s intill’t, ony gait ( anyhow ). The doggie’s 
awa on ’s traivels the day.” 

“ ’Deed, Mistress Catanach,” persisted Malcolm, “ I canna say 
I like to hae my ain fish flung i’ my face, nor yet to see ill-faured 
tykes rin aw T a’ wi’ ’t afore my verra een.” 

After the warning given him by Miss Horn, and the strange 
influence her presence had had on his grandfather, Malcolm pre- 
ferred keeping up a negative quarrel with the woman. 

“ Dinna ca’ ill names,” she returned : “ my dog wad tak it 
waur to be ca’d an ill-faured tyke, nor to hae fish flung in his face. 
Lat’s see what’s i’ yer basket, I say.” 

As she spoke, she laid her hand cn the basket, but Malcolm 
drew back, and turned away towards the gate. 

“ Lord safe us ! ” she cried, with a yelling laugh ; “ yeVo ne 
feared at an auld wife like me?” 

“ I dinna ken ; maybe ay an’ maybe no — I wadna say. But I 
dinna want to hae onything to du wi’ ye, mem.” 

“ Ma’colm MacPhail,” said Mrs Catanach, lowering her voice 
to a hoarse whisper, while every trace of laughter vanished from 
her countenance, “ ye hae had mair to du wi’ me nor ye ken, an' 
aiblins ye’ll hae mair yet nor ye can weel help. Sae caw canrif, 
my man.” 

“Ye may hae the layin’ o’ me oot,” said Malcolm, “but it 
sanna be wi’ my wull ; an’ gien I hae ony life left i’ me, I s’ gie 
ye a fleg ( fright)! 

“ Ye may get a war yersel’ : I hae frichtit the deid afore noo. 


JO 


MALCOLM. 


Sae gang yer wa's to Mistress Coorthoup, wi’ a flech (fltz) i’ yer 
lug (ear). I wuss ye luck — sic luck as I wad wuss ye S ” 

Her last words sounded so like a curse, that to overcome a 
cauld creep , Malcolm had to force a laugh. 

The cook at the House bought all his fish, for they had had 
none for the last few days, because of the storm ; and he wa? 
turning to go home by the river side, when he heard a tap on a 
window, and saw Mrs Courthope beckoning him to another door. 

“ His lordship desired me to send you to him, Malcolm, the 
next time you called,” she said. 

“ Weel, mem, here I am,” answered the youth. 

“ You’ll find him in the flower-garden,” she said. * He’s up 
early to-day for a wonder.” 

He left his basket at the top of the stairs that led down the rock to 
the level of the burn, and walked up the valley of the stream. 

The garden was a curious old-fashioned place, with high 
hedges, and close alleys of trees, where two might have wandered 
long without meeting, and it was some time before he found any 
hint of the presence of the marquis. At length, however, he 
heard voices, and following the sound, walked along one of the 
alleys till he came to a little arbour, where he discovered the 
marquis seated, and, to his surprise, the white-robed lady of the 
sands beside him. A great deer-hound at his masters feet was 
bristling his mane, and barmg his eye-teeth with a growl, but the 
girl had a hold of his collar. 

“ Who are you ?” asked the marquis rather gruffly, as if he had 
never seen him before. 

** I beg yer lordship’s pardon,” said Malcolm, “ but they telled 
me yer lordship wantit to see me, and sent me to the flooer- 
garden. Will I gang, or will I bide ? ” 

The marquis locked at him for a moment, frowningly, and made 
no reply. But the frown gradually relaxed before Malcolm’s 
modest but unflinching gaze, and the shadow of a smile slowly 
usurped its place. He still kept silent, however. 

“ Am I to gang or bide, my lord ? ” repeated Malcolm. 

“ Can’t you wait for an answer ? ” 

M As lang’s yer lordship likes — Will I gang an’ walk aboot, mem 
— my leddy, till his lordship’s made up his min’? Wad that please 
him, duv ye think?” he said, in the tone of one who seeks 
advice. 

But the girl only smlied, and the marquis said, “ Go to the 
devil.” 

“ I maun luik to yer lordship for the necessar’ directions,” re< 
joined Malcolm. 


THE MARQUIS OF LOSS/E. 


71 


“ Your tongue’s long enough to inquire as you go,” said the 
marquis. 

A reply in the same strain rushed to Malcolm’s lips, but he 
checked himself in time, and stood silent, with his bonnet in his 
hand, fronting the two. The marquis sat gazing as if he had 
nothing to say to him, but after a few moments the lady spoke — 
not to Malcolm, however. 

“ Is there any danger in boating here, papa? ” she said. 

“ Not more, I daresay, than there ought to be,” replied the 
marquis listlessly. “ Why do you ask ? ” 

“ Because I should so like a row ! I want to see how the 
shore looks to the mermaids.” 

“ Well, I will take you some day, if we can find a proper boat.” 

“ Is yours a proper boat ? ” she asked, turning to Malcolm with 
a sparkle of fun in her eyes. 

“That depen’s on my lord’s definition o> proper." 

“ Definition ! ” repeated the marquis. 

“ Is ’t ower lang a word, my lord ? ” asked Malcolm. 

The marquis only smiled. 

“ I ken what ye mean. It’s a strange word in a fisher-lad’s 
mou’, ye think. But what for should na a fisher-lad hae a 
smatterin’ o’ loagic, my lord*? For Greek or Laitin there’s but 
sma’ opportunity o’ exerceese in oor pairts ; but for loagic, a 
fisher-body may aye haud his han’ in i’ that. He can aye be tryin’ 
’t upo’ ’s wife, or ’s guid-mother, or upo’ ’s boat, or upo’ the fish 
whan they winna tak. Loagic wad save a heap o’ cursin’ an’ ill 
words — amo’ the fisher-fowk, I mean, my lord.” 

“ Have you been to college ? ” 

“ Na, my lord — the m°ir’s the pity ! But I’ve been to the 
school sin’ ever I can min’.” 

“ Do they teach logic there?” 

“ A kin’ o’ ’t. Mr Graham sets us to try oor han’ whiles — 
jist to mak ’s a bit gleg [quick and kee?i), ye ken.” 

“You don’t mean y' u go to school still?” 

“ I dinna gang reg’lar ; but I gang as aften as Mr Graham 
wants me to help him, an’ I aye gether something.” 

“So it’s schoolmaster you are as well as fisherman? Two 
strings to your bow ! — Who pays you for teaching ? ” 

“ Ow ! naebody. Wha wad pay me for that ? ” 

“ Why, the schoolma: ter.” 

“ Na, but that wad he an affront, my lord ! ” 

“ How can you afford the time for nothing ? ” 

“ The time comes to little, compairt wi’ what Mr Graham gies 
me i’ the lang forenichts — i’ the winter time, ye ken, my lord, 


72 


MALCOLM. 


whan the sea’s whiles ower contumahcious to be meddlet 
muckle wiV* 

“ But you have to support your grandfather.” 

“ My gran’father wad be ill-pleased to hear ye say ’t, my lord. 
He’s terrible independent ; an’ what wi’ his pipes, an’ his lamps, 
an’ his shop, he could keep’s baith. It’s no muckle the likes o* 
us wants. He winna lat me gang far to the fishin’, so that I hae 
the mair time to read an’ gang to Mr Graham. ” 

As the youth spoke, the marquis eyed him with apparently 
growing interest 

“ But you haven’t told me whether your boat is a proper one,” 
said the lady. 

“ Proper eneuch, mem, for what’s required o’ her. She taks 
guid fish.” 

“ But is it a proper boat for me to have a row in?** 

“No wi’ that goon on, mem, as I telled ye afore.” 

“ The water won’t get in, will it ? ” 

“No more than’s easy gotten oot again.” 

“ Do you ever put up a sail ? ” 

“Whiles — a wee bit o’ a lug-sail.” 

“Nonsense, Flory!” said the marquis. “I’ll see about it* 
Then turning to Malcolm, — 

“ You may go,” he said. “ When I want you I will send for 
you.” 

Malcolm thought with himself that he had sent for him this 
time before he wanted him ; but he made his bow, and departed 
— not without disappointment, for he had expected the marquis 
to say something about his grandfather *<&ing to the House with 
his pipes, a request he would fain have carried to the old man to 
gladden his heart withal. 

Lord Lossie had been one of the boon companions of the 
Prince of Wales — considerably hi & her in type, it is true, yet low 
enough to accept usage for law, and measure his obligation by 
the custom of his peers : duty merely amounted to what was ex- 
pected of him, and honour, the flitting shadow of the garment of 
truth, was his sole divinity. Still he had a heart, and it would 
speak, — so long at least as the object affecting it was present. 
But, alas ! it had no memory. Like the unjust judge, he might 
redress a wrong that cried to him, but out ot sight and hearing it 
had for him no existence. To a man he would not have told a 
deliberate lie — except, indeed, a woman was in the case ; but to 
women he had lied enough to sink the whole ship of fools. 
Nevertheless, had the accusing angel himself called him a liar, 
he would have instantly offered him his choice of weapons* 


THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


73 


There was in him by nature, however, a certain generosity 
which all the vice he had shared in had not quenched. Over- 
bearing, he was not yet too overbearing to appreciate a manly 
carriage, and had been pleased with what some would have con- 
sidered the boorishness of Malcolm’s behaviour — such not per- 
ceiving that it had the same source as the true aristocratic bearing 
— namely, a certain unselfish confidence which is the mother of 
dignity. 

He had, of course, been a spendthrift — and so much the better, 
being otherwise what he was ; for a cautious and frugal voluptu- 
ary is about the lowest style of man. Hence he had never been 
out of difficulties, and when, a year or so agone, he succeeded to 
his brother’s marquisate, he was, notwithstanding his enlarged 
income, far too much involved to hope any immediate rescue 
from them. His new property, however, would afford him a 
refuge from troublesome creditors ; there he might also avoid 
expenditure for a season, and perhaps rally the forces of a dis- 
solute life ; the place was not new to him, having, some twenty 
years before, spent nearly twelve months there, of which time the 
recollections were not altogether unpleasant : weighing all these 
things he had made up his mind, and here he was at Lossie 
House. 

The marquis was about fifty years of age, more worn than his 
years would account for, yet younger than his years in expression, 
for his conscience had never bitten him very deep. He was 
middle-sized, broad-shouldered but rather thin, with fine features 
of the aquiline Greek type, light-blue hazy eyes, and fair hair, 
slightly curling and streaked with gray. His manners were those 
of one polite for his own sake. To his remote inferiors he was 
kind — would even encourage them to liberties, but might in turn 
take greater with them than they might find agreeable. He was 
fond of animals — would sit for an hour stroking the head of 
Demon, his great Irish deerhound ; but at other times would 
tease him to a wrath which touched the verge of dangerous. He 
was fond of practical jokes, and would not hesitate to indulge 
himself even in such as were incompatible with any genuine 
refinement : the sort had been in vc.-ue in his merrier days, and 
Lord Lossie had ever been one of the most fertile in inventing, 
and loudest in enjoying them. For the rest, if he was easily 
enraged, he was readily appeased ; could drink a great deal, but 
was no drunkard ; and held as his creed that a God had probably 
made the world and set it going, but that he did not care a brass 
farthing, as he phrased it, how it went on, or what such an insig- 
nificant being as a man did or left undone in it. Perhaps he 


74 


MALCOLM , ; 


might amuse himself with it, he said, but he doubted it As to 
men, he believed every man loved himself supremely, and there- 
fore was in natural warfare with every other man. Concerning 
women he professed himself unable to give a definite utterance of 
any sort — and yet, he would add, he had had opportunities. 

The mother of Florimel had died when she was a mere child, 
and from that time she had been at school until her father brought 
her away to share his fresh honours. She knew little, that little 
was not correct, and had it been, would have yet been of small 
value. At school she had been under many laws, and had felt 
their slavery : she was now in the third heaven of delight with her 
liberty. But the worst of foolish laws is, that when the insurgent 
spirit casts them olf, it is but too ready to cast away with them 
the genial self-restraint which these fretting trammels have 
smothered beneath them. 

Her father regarded her as a child, of whom it was enough to 
require that she should keep out of mischief. He said to himself 
now and then that he must find a governess for her ; but as yet 
he had not begun to look for one. Meantime he neither exercised 
the needful authority over her, nor treated her as a companion. 
His was a shallow nature, never very pleasantly conscious of it- 
self except in the whirl of excitement, and the glitter of crossing 
lights : with a lovely daughter by his side, he neither sought to 
search into her being, nor to aid its unfolding, but sat brooding 
over past pleasures, or fancying others yet in store for him — lost 
in the dull flow of life along the lazy reach to whose mire its once 
tumultuous torrent had now descended. But, indeed, what could 
such a man have done for the education of a young girl ? How 
many of the qualities he understood and enjoyed in women could 
he desire to see developed in his daughter? There was yet 
enough of the father in hirn to expect those qualities in her to 
which in other women he had been an insidious foe ; but had he 
not done what in him lay to destroy his right of claiming such 
from her? 

So Lady Florimel was running wild, and enjoying it As long 
as she made her appearance at meals, and looked happy, her 
father would give himself no trouble about her. he himself 

managed to live in those first days without company — what he 
thought about or speculated upon, it were hard to say. All he 
could be said to do was to ride here and there over the estate 
with his steward, Mr Crathic* knowing little and caring less about 
farming, or crops, or cattle, lie had by this time, however, invited 
a few friends to visit him, and expected their arrival before 
long. 


MEG PAX TAN’S LAMP. 


75 


“How do you like this dull life, Flory?” he said, as they 
walked up the garden to breakfast. 

“ Dull, papa ! ” she returned. “You never were at a girls’ 
school, or you wouldn’t call this dull. It is the merriest life in 
the world. To go where you like, and have miles of room ! 
And such room ! It’s the loveliest place in the world, papa ! ” 
He smiled a small, satisfied smile, and stooping stroked his 
Demon. 


CHAPTER XI Y. 

MEG PARTAN’S LAMP. 

Malcolm went down the river-side, not over pleased with the 
marquis ; for, although unconscious of it as such, he had a strong 
feeling of personal dignity. 

As he threaded the tortuous ways of the Seaton towards his own 
door, he met sounds of mingled abuse and apology. Such were 
not infrequent in that quarter, for one of the women who lived 
there was a termagant, and the door of her cottage was generally 
open. She was known as Meg Partan. Her husband’s real 
name was of as little consequence in life as it is in my history, 
for almost everybody in the fishing villages of that coast was and 
is known by his to-name , or nickname, a device for distinction 
rendered absolutely necessary by the paucity of surnames occa- 
sioned by the persistent intermarriage of the fisher-folk. Partan 
is the Scotch for crab , but the immediate recipient of the name 
was one of the gentlest creatures in the place, and hence it had 
been surmised by some that, the grey mare being the better 
horse, the man was thus designated from the crabbedness of his 
wife ; but the probability is he brought the agnomen with him 
from school, where many such apparently misfitting names are 
unaccountably generated. 

In the present case, however, the apologies were not issuing 
as usual from the mouth of Davy Partan, but from that of the 
blind piper. Malcolm stood for a moment at the door to un- 
derstand the matter of contention, and prepare him to interfere 
judiciously. 

“ Gien ye suppose, piper, ’at ye’re peyed to drive fowk oot 
o’ their beds at sic hoors as yon, it’s time the toon-cooncil was 
informed o’ yer mistak,” said Meg Partan, with emphasis on the 
last syllable. 


76 


MALCOLM. 


“ Ta coot peoples up in ta town are not half so hart upon her 
as you, Mistress Partan,” insinuated poor Duncan, who, knowing 
himself in fault, was humble ; “ and it’s tere tat she’s paid,” he 
added, with a bridling motion, “ and not town here pelow.” 

“ Dinna ye glorifee yersel’ to suppose there’s a fisher, lat alane 
a fisher’s wife, in a’ the haill Seaton ’at wad lippen (trust) till an 
auld haiveril like you to hae them up i’ the mornin’ ! Haith ! I 
was oot o’ my bed hoors or I hard the skirlin’ o’ your pipes. 
Troth I ken weel hoo muckle ower ear’ ye was ! But what fowk 
taks in han’, fowk sud put oot o’ han’ in a proper mainner, and 
no misguggle ’t a’thegither like yon. An’ for what they say i’ the 
toon, there’s Mistress Catanach ” 

“Mistress Catanach is a paad ’oman,” said Duncan. 

“ I wad advise you , piper, to haud a quaiet sough about her . 
She's no to be meddlet wi’, Mistress Catanach, I can tell ye. 
Gien ye anger her, it’ll be the waur for ye. The neist time ye 
hae a lyin’ in, she’ll be raxin’ (reaching) ye a hairless pup, or, 
deed, maybe a stan’ o’ bagpipes, as the produck.” 

“ Her nain sel’ will not pe requiring her sairvices, Mistress 
Partan ; she’ll pe leafing tat to you, if you’ll excuse me,” said 
Duncan. 

“ Deed, ye’re richt there 1 An auld speldin’ (dined rnddock) 
like you ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! ” 

Malcolm judged it time to interfere, and stepped into the 
cottage. Duncan was seated in the darkest corner of the room, 
with an apron over his knees, occupied with a tin lamp. He had 
taken out the wick and laid its flat tube on the hearth, had 
emptied the oil into a saucer, and was now rubbing the lamp 
vigorously : cleanliness rather than brightness must have bee~a 
what he sought to produce. 

Malcolm’s instinct taught him to side so far with the dame 
concerning Mrs Catanach, and thereby turn the torrent away from 
his grandfather. 

“ ’Deed ye’re richt there, Mistress Findlay !” he said. “ She's 
no to be meddlet wi’. She’s no mowse (safe)." 

Malcolm was a favourite with Meg, as with all the women of 
trie place; hence she did not even start in resentment at his 
sudden appearance, but, turning to Duncan, txUaimed vic- 
toriously, — 

“ Hear till her ain oye ! He’s a laad o’ sense !” 

“ Ay, hear to him !” rejoined the old man with pride. “ My 
Malcolm will always pe speaking tat which will pe worth ta hear- 
ing with ta ears. Poth of you and me will be knowing ta Mistress 


MEG PAX TAN’S LAMP . 


77 


Catanach pretty well — eh, Malcolm, my son? We’ll not be trust- 
ing her fery too much — will we, my son?” 

“ No a hair, daddy,” returned Malcolm. 

“She’s a dooms clever wife, though ; an’ ane ’at ye may lippen 
till i’ the w’y o’ her ain callin’,” said Meg Partan, whose temper 
had improved a little under the influence of the handsome youth’s 
presence and cheery speech. 

“ She’ll not pe toubting it,” responded Duncan ; “ put, ach i 
ta voman ’ll be hafing a crim feesage and a fearsome eye i” 

Like all the blind, he spoke as if he saw perfectly 

“ Weel, I hae hard fowk say ’at ye bude ( behoved ) to hae the 
second sicht,” said Mrs. Findlay, laughing rudely ; “ but wow ! 
it stan’s ye in sma’ service gien that be a’ it comes till. She’s a 
guid-natur’d, sonsy-luikin’ wife as ye wad see ; an’ for her een, 
they’re jistsic likes mine ain. — Haena ye near dune wi’ that 
lamp yet ? ” 

“ The week of it ’ll pe shust a lettle out of orter,” answered the 
old man. “ Ta pairns has been pulling it up with a peen from ta 
top, and not putting it in at ta hole for ta purpose. And she’ll pe 
thinking you’ll be cleaning off ta purnt part with a peen yourself, 
ma’am, and not with ta pair of scissors she tolt you of, Mistress 
Partan.” 

“ Gae hva* wi’ yer nonsense!” cried Meg. “ Daur ye say I 
dinna ken hoo to trim an uilyie lamp wi’ the best blin’ piper that 
ever cam frae the bare-leggit Heelans ?” 

“ A choke’s a choke, ma’am,” said Duncan, rising with dignity ; 
“ put for a laty to make a choke of a man’s pare leks is not ta 
propriety !” 

“ Oot o’ my hoose wi’ ye !” screamed the she-Partan. “ Wad 
ye threep ( insist ) upo’ me ony thing I said was less nor proaper. 
’At I sud say what wadna stan’ the licht as weel’s the bare houghs 
o’ ony heelan’ rascal ’at ever lap a lawlan’ dyke !” 

“ Hoot toot, Mistress Findlay,” interposed Malcolm, as his 
grandfather strode from the door; “ye maunna forget ’at he’s 
auld an’ blin’ ; an’ a’ heelan’ fowk’s some kittle ( touchy ) about 
their legs.” 

“ Deil shochle them !” exclaimed the Partaness; “ what care I 
for’s legs !” 

Duncan had brought the germ of this ministry of light from his 
native Highlands, where he had practised it in his own house, no 
one but himself being permitted to clean, or fill, or, indeed, trim 
the lamp. How first this came about, I do not believe the old 
man himself knew. But he must have had some feeling of a call 
to the work ; for he had not been a month in Portlossie, before 


78 


MALCOLM. 


he had installed himself in several families as the genius of their 
lamps, and he gradually extended the relation until it compre- 
hended almost all the houses in the village. 

It was strange and touching to see the sightless man thus busy 
aoout light for others. A marvellous symbol of faith he was — 
not only believing in sight, but in the mysterious, and to him 
altogether unintelligible means by which others saw ! In thus 
lending his aid to a faculty in which he had no share, he himself 
followed the trail of the garments of Light, stooping ever and 
anon to lift and bear her skirts. He haunted the steps of the 
unknown Power, and flitted about the walls of her temple, as we 
mortals haunt the borders of the immortal land, knowing nothing 
of what lies behind the unseen veil, yet believing in an unrevealed 
grandeur. Or shall we say he stood like the forsaken merman, 
who, having no soul to be saved, yet lingered and listened outside 
the prayer-echoing church ? Only old Duncan had got farther : 
though he saw not a glimmer of the glory, he yet asserted his 
part and lot in it, by the aiding of his fellows to that of which he 
lacked the very conception himself. He was a doorkeeper in 
the house, yea, by faith the blind man became even a priest in 
the temple of Light. 

Even when his grandchild was the merest baby, he would 
never allow the gloaming to deepen into night without kindling 
for his behoof the brightest and cleanest of train-oil-lamps. The 
women who at first looked in to offer their services, would marvel 
at the trio of blind man, babe, and burning lamp, and some 
would expostulate with him on the needless waste. But neither 
would he listen to their words, nor accept their offered assistance 
in dressing or undressing the child. The sole manner in which 
he would consent to avail himself of their willingness to help him, 
was to leave the baby in charge of this or that neighbour while 
he went his rounds with the bagpipes : when he went lamp- 
cleaning he always took him along with him. 

By this change of guardians Malcolm was a great gainer, for 
thus he came to be surreptitiously nursed by a baker’s dozen of 
mothers, who had a fund of not very wicked amusement in the 
lamentations of the old man over his baby’s refusal of nourish- 
ment, and his fears that he was pining away. But while they 
honestly declared that a healthier child had never been seen in 
Portlossie, they were compelled to conceal the too satisfactory 
reasons of the child’s fastidiousness ; for they were persuaded 
that the truth would only make Duncan terribly jealous, and 
set him on contriving how at once to play his pipes and ca’ry 
his baby. 


THE SLOPE OF THE DUNE. 


79 


He had certain days for visiting certain houses, and cleaning 
the lamps in them. The housewives had at first granted him as 
a privilege the indulgence of his whim, and as such alone had 
Duncan regarded it; but by and by, when they found their 
lamps bum so much better from being properly attended to, they 
be^rx to make him some small return ; and at length it became 
the custom with every housewife who accepted his services, to 
pay idm a halfpenny a week during the winter months for clean- 
ing her lamp. He never asked for it ; if payment was omitted, 
never even hinted at it ; received what was given him thankfully ; 
and was regarded with kindness, and, indeed, respect, by all. 
Even Mrs Partan, as he alone called her, was his true friend : no 
intensity of friendship could have kept her from scolding. I 
believe if we could thoroughly dissect the natures of scolding 
women, we should find them in general not at all so unfriendly 
as they are unpleasant. 

A small trade in oil arose from his connection with the lamps, 
and was added to the list of his general dealings. The fisher-folk 
made their own oil, but sometimes it would run short, and then 
recourse was had to Duncan’s little store, prepared by himself of 
the best, chiefly, now, from the livers of fish caught by his grand- 
son. With so many sources of income, no one wondered at his 
getting on. Indeed no one would have been surprised to hear, 
long before Malcolm had begun to earn anything, that the old 
man had already laid by a trifle. 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE SLOPE OF THE DUNE. 

Looking at Malcolm’s life from the point of his own conscious- 
ness, and not from that of the so-called world, it was surely plea- 
sant enough ! Innocence, devotion to another, health, pleasant 
labour with an occasional shadow of danger to arouse the ener- 
gies, leisure, love of reading, a lofty-minded friend, and, above all, 
a supreme presence, visible to his heart in the meeting of vaulted 
sky and outspread sea, and felt at moments in any waking wind 
that cooled his glowing cheek and breathed into him anew of the 
breath of life, — lapped in sucli conditions, bathed in such influ- 
ences, the youth’s heart was swelling like a rose-bud ready iq 
burst into blossom. 


8o 


MALCOLM. 


But ne had never yet felt the immediate presence ot woman 
any of her closer relations. He had never known mother or 
sister; and, although his voice always assumed a different tone 
and his manner grew more gentle in the presence of a woman, 
old or young, he had found little individually attractive amongst 
the fisher-girls. There was not much in their circumstances to 
bring out the finer influences of womankind in them : they had 
rough usage, hard work at the curing and carrying of fish and tlrs 
drying of nets, little education, and but poor religious instruction. 
At the same time any failure in what has come to be specially 
called virtue , was all but unknown amongst them ; and the pro- 
found faith in women, and corresponding worship of everything 
essential to womanhood which essentially belonged to a nature 
touched to fine issues, had as yet met with no check. It had 
never come into Malcolm’s thoughts that there were live women 
capable of impurity. Mrs. Catanach was the only woman he 
had ever looked upon with dislike — and that dislike had gener- 
ated no more than the vaguest suspicion. Let a woman’s faults 
be all that he had ever known in woman, he yet could look on 
her with reverence — and the very heart of reverence is love; 
whence it may be plainly seen that Malcolm’s nature was at once 
prepared for much delight, and exposed to much suffering. It 
followed that all the women of his class loved and trusted him; 
and hence in part it came that, absolutely free of arrogance, he 
was yet confident in the presence of women. The tradesmen’s 
daughters in the upper town took pains to show him how high 
above him they were, and women of better position spoke to him 
with a kind condescension that made him feel the gulf that 
separated them ; but to one and all he spoke with the frankness 
of manly freedom. 

But he had now arrived at that season when, in the order of 
things, a man is compelled to have at least a glimmer of the life 
which consists in sharing life with another. When once, through 
the thousand imknown paths of creation, the human being is so 
far divided from God that his individuality is secured, it has be- 
come yet more needful that the crust gathered around him in the 
process should be broken ; and the love between man and woman 
arising from a difference deep in the heart of God, and essential 
to the very being of each — for by no words can I express my 
scorn of the evil fancy that the distinction between them is solely 
or even primarily physical — is one of his most powerful forces for 
blasting the wall of separation, and, first step towards the universal 
harmony, of twain making one. That love should be capable ot 
ending in such vermiculate results as too often appear, is no more 


THE SLOPE OF THE DUNE. 


81 


against the loveliness of the divine idea, than that the forms of 
man and woman, the spirit gone from them, should degenerate to 
such things as may not be looked upon. There is no plainer 
sign of the need of a God, than the possible fate of love. The 
celestial Cupido may soar aloft on seraph wings that assert his 
criarm, or fall down on the belly of a snake and creep to hell. 

Lut Malcolm was not of the stuff of which coxcombs are 
made, and had not begun to think even of the abyss that 
separated Lady Florimel and himself — an abyss like that between 
star and star, across which stretches no mediating air — a blank 
and blind space. He felt her presence only as that of a being to 
be worshipped, to be heard with rapture, and yet addressed 
without fear. 

Though not greatly prejudiced in favour of books, Lady 
Florimel had burrowed a little in the old library at Lossie House, 
and had chanced on the Faerie Queene. She had often come 
upon the name of the author in books of extracts, and now, 
turning over its leaves, she found her own. Indeed, where else 
could her mother have found the name Florimel 1 Her' curiosity 
was roused, and she resolved — no light undertaking — to read the 
poem through, and see who and what the lady, Florimel, was. 
Notwithstanding the difficulty she met with at first, she had per- 
severed, and by this time it had become easy enough. The copy 
she had found was in small volumes, of which she now carried 
• ne about with her wherever she wandered ; and making her first 
acquaintance with the sea and the poem together, she soon came 
to fancy that she could not fix her attention on the book without 
the sound of the waves for an accompaniment to the verse — 
although the gentler noise of an ever-flowing stream would have 
1 -otter suited the nature of Spenser’s rhythm ; for indeed, he had 
composed the greater part of the poem with such a sound in his 
ears, and there are indications in the poem itself that he con- 
sciously took the river as his chosen analogue after which to 
model the flow of his verse. 

It was a sultry afternoon, and Florimel lay on the seaward side 
of the dune, buried in her book. The sky was foggy with heat, 
md the sea lay dull, as if oppressed by the superincumbent air, 
and leaden in "hue, as if its colour had been destroy ed by the sun. 
The tide was rising slowly, with a muffled and sleepy murmur on 
the sand ; for here were no peebles to impart a hiss to the wave 
as it rushed up the bank, or to go softly hurtling down the slope 
with it as it sank. As she read, Malcolm was walking towards 
her along the top of the dune, but not until he came almost above 
whore she lay, did she hear his step in the soft quenching sand. 


82 


MALCOLM . 


She nodded kindly, and he descended approaching her. 

“ Did ye want me, my leddy ? ” he asked. 

“ No,” she answered. 

“ I wasna sure whether ye noddit ’cause ye wantit me or no,* 
said Malcolm, and turned to reascend the dune. 

“ Where are you going now ? ” she asked. 

“ Ow ! nae gait in particlar. I jist cam oot to see hoo things 
war luikin.” 

“What things?” 

“ Ow ! jist the lift (sky), an’ the sea, an’ sic generals.” 

That Malcolm’s delight in the presences of Nature — I say 
presences , as distinguished from forms and colours and all analyzed 
sources of her influences — should have already become a con- 
scious thing tc himself, requires to account tor it the fact that his 
master, Graham, was already under the influences of Wordsworth, 
whom he had hailed as a Crabbe that had burst his shell and 
spread the wings of an eagle : the virtue passed from him to his 
pupil. 

“ I won’t detain you from such important business,” said 
Lady Florimel, and dropped her eyes on her book. 

“ Gien ye want my company, my leddy, I can luik aboot me 
jist as weel here as ony ither gait,” said Malcolm. 

And as he spoke, he gently stretched himself on the dune, 
about three yards aside and lower down. Florimel looked half 
amused and half annoyed, but she had brought it on herself, and 
would punish him only by dropping her eyes again on her book, 
and keeping silent. She had come to the Florimel of snow. 

Malcolm lay and looked at her for a few moments pondering ; 
then fancying he had found the cause of her offence, rose, and, 
passing to the other side of her, again lay down, but at a still 
more respectful distance. 

“ Why do you move ? ” she asked, without looking up. 

“ ’Cause there’s jist a possible air o’ win’ frae the nor’-east” 

“ And you want me to shelter you from it ? ” said Lady 
Florimel. 

“ Na, na, my leddy,” returned Malcolm, lauohing ; “ for as 
bonny's ye are, ye wad be but sma’ scoug ( shelter ).” 

“ Why did you move, then?” persisted tie girl, who understood 
what he said just about half. 

“Weel, my leddy, ye see it’s het, an’ I’m aye arrtang the fish 
mair or less, an’ I didna ken ’at I was to hie the honour ©’ sittin’ 
doon aside ye ; sae I thocht ye was maybe sir, el lie 1 the fish. It'S 
healthy eneuch, but some fowk disnalike it, an’ fbra’ that I ken, 
you gran’ fowk’s senses may be mair ready to scunner (take offence) 


THE SLOPE OF THE DUNE, . £3 

than oors. ’Deed, my leddy, we wadna need to be particlar, 
whiles, or it wad be the waur for ’s ! ” 

Simple as it was, the explanation served to restore her equa- 
nimity, disturbed by what had seemed his presumption in lying 
down in her presence : she saw that she had mistaken the action. 
The fact was, that, concluding from her behaviour she had some- 
thing to say to him, but was not yet at leisure for l;;m, he had 
lain down, as a loving dog might, to await her time. It was 
devotion, not coolness. To remain standing before her would 
have seemed a demand on her attention ; to lie down was to 
withdraw and wait But Florimel, although pleased, was only 
the more inclined to torment — a peculiarity of disposition which 
she inherited from her father: she bowed her face once more over 
her book, and read through three whole stanzas, without however 
understanding a single phrase in them, before she spoke. Then 
looking up, and regarding for a moment the youth who lay watch- 
ing her with the eyes of the servants in the psalm, she said, — 

“ Well ? What are you waiting for ?” 

“ I thocht ye wantit me, my leddy ! I beg yer pardon,” 
answered Malcolm, springing to his feet, and turning to go. 

“ Do you ever read ? ” she asked. 

“Aften that,” replied Malcolm, turning again, and standing 
stock-still. “ An’ I like best to read jist as yer leddyship’s 
readin’ the noo, lyin’ o’ the san’-hill, wi’ the haill sea afore me, 
an’ naething atween me an’ the icebergs but the watter an’ the 
stars an’ a wheen islands. It’s like readin’ wi’ fower een, that ! ” 

“ And what do you read on such occasions ? ” carelessly 
drawled his persecutor. 

“ Whiles ae thing an* whiles anither — whiles onything I can 
lay my han’s upo’. I like traivels an’ sic like weel eneuch ; an' 
histrry, gien it be na ower dry-like. I div not like sermons, an' 
there’s mair o’ them in Portlossie than onything ither. Mr Graham 
— that’s the schoolmaister — has a gran’ libbrary, but it’s maist 
Laitin an’ Greek, an’ though I like the Laitin weel, it’s no what 
I wad read i’ the face o’ the sea. When ye’re in dreid o’ wantin’ 
a dictionary that spiles a’.” 

“ Can you read Latin then ? ” 

“ Ay : what for no, my leddy ? I can read Virgil middlin’ ; 
an’ Horace’s Ars Poetica, the whilk Mr Graham says is no its 
richt name ava, but jist Epistola ad Pis ones ; for gien they buae 
to gie 't anither it sud ha’ been Ars Dramatica. But leddies 
dinna care aboot sic things.” 

“ You gentlemen give us no chance. You won’t teach us.” 

« Noo, my leddy, dinna begin to mak’ ghem o’ me, like my 


84 


MALCOLM . 


lord. I cud ill bide it frae him, an’ gien ye tak till f t as weel, I 
maun jist haud oot o’ yer gait. I’m nae gentleman, an’ hae ower 
muckle respeck for what becomes a gentleman to be pleased at 
bein’ ca’d ane. But as for the Laitin, I’ll be prood to instruck 
yer leddyship whan ye please.” 

“ I’m afraid I’ve no great wish to learn.” said Florimel. 

“ I daur say no,” said Malcolm quietly, and again addressed 
himself to go. 

“ Do you like novels ? ” asked the girl. 

“ I never saw a novelle. There’s no ane amo’ a’ Mr Grahams 
buiks, an’ I s’ warran’ there’s full twa hunner o’ them . I dinna 
believe there’s a single novelle in a’ Portlossie.” 

“ Don’t be too sure : there are a good many in our library.” 

“ I hadna the presumption, my leddy, to coont the Hoose in 
Portlossie — Ye’ll hae a sicht o’ buiks up there, no ? ” 

“ Have you never been in the library ? ” 

“I never set fut i’ the hoose — ’cep’ i’ the kitchie, an* ance or 
(wise steppin’ across the ha’ frae the ae door to the tither. I wad 
fain see what kin’ o’ a place great fc-wk like you bides in, an’ what 
kin’ o’ things, buiks an’ a’, ye hae aboot ye. It’s no easy for the 
like o’ huz ’at has but a but an’ a ben ( outer and inner room ), to 
unnerstan’ hoo ye fill sic a muckle place as yon. I wad be aye 
i’ the libbrary, I think. Put,” he went on, glancing involuntarily 
at the dainty little foot that peered from under her dress, “yer 
leddyship’s sae licht-fittit, ye’ll be ower the haill dwallin’, like a wee 
bird in a muckle cage. Whan I want room, I like it wantin’ wa’s.” 

Once more he was on the point of going, but once more a word 
detained him. 

“ Do yo^ ever read poetry ? ” 

“Ay, sometimes — whan it’s auld.” 

“ One would think you were talking about wine ! Does age 
improve poetry as well ? ” 

“ I ken naething aboot wine, my leddy. Miss Horn gae me 
a glaiss the ither day, an’ it tastit weel, but whether it was merum 
or mixtum , I couldna tell mair nor a haddick. Doobtless age 
does gar poetry smack a wee better ; but I said auld only ’cause 
there’s sae little new poetry that I care aboot comes my gait. 
Mr Graham’s unco ta’en wi’ Maister Wordsworth — no an ill name 
for a poet ; do ye ken onything aboot him % my leddy ? ” 

“ I never heard of him.” 

u I wadna gie an auld Sects ballant for a barrowfu’ o’ his. 
There’s gran’ bits here an’ there, nae doobt, but it ’s ower mini- 
mou’ed for me.” 

“ What do you mean by that?” 


SLOPE OF THE DUNE . 


85 


“ It’s ower saft an’ sliddery like i’ y ex mou’, my leddy.” 

" What sort do you like then ? ” 

“ I like Milton weel. Ye get a fine tf>ou’fu’ o’ him. I dinna 
like the verse ’at ye can murle {crutn l !t\ oot atween yer lips an’ 
yer teeth. I like the verse ’at ye maun open yer mou’ vveel to 
lat gang. Syne it’s worth yer while, whether ye unnerstan’ ’t or 
no.” 

“ I don’t see how you can say that.” 

“ Jist hear, my leddy ! Here’s a bit I cam upo’ last nicht : 

. . . His volant touch, 

Instinct through all proportions, low and high, 

Fled and pursued transverse the resonant fugue. 

Hear till ’t ! It’s gran’ — even though ye dinna ken what it means 
a bit.” 

“ I do know what it means,” said Florimel. “ Let me see : 
volant means — what does volant mean ? ” 

“ It means fleeiri , I suppose.” 

il Well, he means some musician or other.” 

“ Ofcoorse : it maun be Jubal — I ken a’ the worrV T >ut fugue ; 
though I canna tell what business instinct an’ proportions hae 
there.” 

“ It’s describing how the man’s fingers, playing a fugue — on 
the organ, I suppose, ” 

“ A fugue ’ll be some kin’ o’ a tune, than ? That casts a heap 
o’Jicht on’t, my leddy — I never saw an organ : what is ’t like? ” 

“ Something like a pianoforte.” 

“ But I never saw ane o’ them either. It’s ill makin’ things 
a’thegither oot o’ yer ain heid.” 

“Well, it’s played with the fingers — like this,” said Florimel. 
“ And the fugue is a kind of piece where one part pursues the 
other, ■” 

“ An’ syne,” cried Malcolm eagerly, “ that ane turns roon’ an’ 
rins efter the first; — that ’ll b z ‘ fled and pursued transverse .’ I 
hae't ! I hae’t ! See, my leddy, what it is to hae sic schoolin’, 
wi’ music an’ a’ ! The proportio?is — that’s the relation o’ the notes 
to ane anither; an 'fugue — that comes frae fugere to flee , — ‘ fled and 
pursued transverse the resonant fugue ’ — the tane rinnin’ efter the 
tither, roon’ an’ roon’. Ay, I hae’t noo ! — Resonant — that’s 
echoing or resounding. But what’s instinct^ my leddy ? It maun 
be an adjective, I’m thinkin’.” 

Although the modesty of Malcolm had led him to conclude 
the girl immeasurably his superior in learning because she could 
tell him what a fugue was, he soon found she could help him no 


86 


MALCOLM. 


further, for she understood scarcely anything about grammar, 
and her vocabulary was limited enough. Not a doubt interfer- 
ed, however, with ner acceptance of the imputed superiority ; 
for it is as easy for some to assume as it is for others to yield. 

“ I hae’t ! It is an adjective,” cried Malcolm, after a short 
pause of thought. “ It’s the touch that’s instinct. But I fancy 
there sud be a comma efter instinct. — His fingers were sae used 
till ’t that they could ’maist do the thing o’ themsel’s — Isna ’t 
lucky, my leddy, that I thocht o’ sayin’ ’t ower to you? I’ll read 
the buik frae the beginning — it’s the neist to the last, I think, — 
jist to come upo’ the twa lines i’ their ain place, ohn their expec- 
kin’ me like, an’ see hoo gran’ they soon’ whan a body unner- 
stan’s them. Thank ye, my leddy.” 

“ I suppose you read Milton to your grandfather ? * 

“ Ay, sometimes — i’ the lang fore-nights.” 

“ What do you mean by the fore-nights ? ” 

" I mean efter it’s dark an’ afore ye gang to yer bed. — He likes 
the battles o’ the angels best. As sune ’s it comes to ony 
fechtin’, up be gets, an’ gangs stridin’ aboot the flure ; an’ whiles 
he maks & claucht at ’s claymore ; an’ faith ! ance he maist 
cawed aff my heid wi’ \ for he had made a mistak aboot whaui 
I was sittin’.” 

“ What’s a claymore ?” 

“ A muckle heelan’ braidswoord, my leddy. Clay frae gladius^ 
verra likly ; an’ more ’s the Gaelic for great : claymore , great 
sword. Blin’ as my gran’ father is, ye wad sweer he had fochten 
in ’s day, gien ye hard hoo he’ll gar’t whurr an’ whustle aboot ’s 
heid as gien ’t war a bit lath o’ wud.” 

“ But that’s very dangerous,” said Florimel, something aghast 
at the recital. 

“ Ow, ay ! ” assented Malcolm, indifferently,— 1 “ Gien ye wad 
luik in, my leddy, I wad lat ye see his claymore, an’ his dirk, an’ 
his skene dhu, an’ a’.” 

“ I don’t think I could venture. He’s too dreadful ! I should 
be terrified at him.” 

“ Dreidfu’ ! my leddy? He’s the quaietest, kin’liest auld man ! 
that is, providit ye say naething/<?r a Cawmill, or agen ony ither 
hielanman. Ye see he comes o’ Glenco, an’ the Cawmills are 
jist a hate till him — specially Cawmill o’ Glenlyon, wha was the 
warst o’ them a’. Ye sud hear him tell the story till ’s pipes, my 
leddy 1 It’s gran’ to hear him 1 An’ the poetry a’ his ain 1 ” 


THE STORM. 


S7 


CHAPTER XYL 

THE STORM. 

T'here came a blinding flash, and a roar through the leaden air, 
followed by heavy drops mixed with huge hailstones. At the 
flash, Florimel gave a cry and half rose to her feet, but at the 
thunder, fell as if stunned by the noise, on the sand. As if with 
a bound, Malcolm was by her side, but when she perceived his 
terror, she smiled, and laying hold of his hand, sprung to her 
feet. 

“ Come, come,” she cried ; and still holding his hand, hurried 
up the dune, and down the other side of it. Malcolm accom- 
panied her step for step, strongly tempted, however, to snatch her 
up, and run for the bored craig : he could not think why she 
made for the road — high on an unscalable embankment, with the 
park -wall on the other side. But she ran straight for a door in 
tire embankment itself, dark between two buttresses, which, never 
having seen it open, he had not thought of. For a moment she 
stood panting before it, while with trembling hand she put a key 
in the lock ; the next she pushed open the creaking door and 
entered. As she turned to take out the key, she saw Malcolm 
yards away in the middle of the road and in a cataract of rain, 
which seemed to have with difficulty suspended itself only until 
the lady should be under cover. He stood with his bonnet in 
his hand, watching for a farewell glance. 

“ Why don’t you come in ? ” she said impatiently. 

He was beside her in a moment. 

** I didna ken ye wad lat me in,” he said. 

“I would’nt have you drowned,” she returned, shutting the 
door. 

“ Droont ! ” he repeated, “ It wad tak a hantle (great deal) to 
droon me. I stack to the boddum o’ a whumled boat a haill 
nicht whan I was but fifeteen.” 

They stood in a tunnel which passed under the read, affording 
immediate communication between the park and the shore. The 
further end of it was dark with trees. The upper half of the door 
by which they had entered, was a wooden grating, for the admis- 
sion of light, and through it they were now gazing, though they 
could see little but the straight lines of almost perpendicular rain 
that scratched out tne colours of the landscape. The sea was 


88 


MALCOLM. 


troubled, although no wind blew; it heaved as with an inward 
unrest. But suddenly there was a great broken sound somewhere 
in the air ; and the next moment a storm came tearing over the 
face of the sea, covering it with blackness innumerably rent into 
spots of white. Presently it struck the shore, and a great rude 
blast came roaring through the grating, carrying with it a sheet of 
rain, and, catching Florimel’s hair, sent it streaming wildly Jui 
behind her. 

“ Dinna ye think, my leddy,” said Malcolm, “ ye had better 
mak for the hoose ? What wi* the win’ an’ the weet thegither, 
ye’ll be gettin’ yer deith o’ cauld. I s’ gang wi’ ye sae far, gien 
ye’ll alloo me, jist to haud it oho Nawn yc awa’.” 

The wind suddenly fell, and his last avoids echoed loud in the 
vaulted sky. For a moment it grew darker in the silence, and 
then a great flash carried the world away with it, and left nothing 
but blackness behind. A roar of thunder followed, and even 
while it yet bellowed, a white face flitted athwart the grating, and 
a voice of agony shrieked aloud : 

“ I dinna ken whaur it comes frae !** 

Florimel grasped Malcolm’s arm : the face had passed close to 
hers — only the grating between, and the cry cut through the 
thunder like a knife. 

Instinctively, almost unconsciously, he threw his arm around 
her, to shield her from her own terror. 

“Dinna be fleyt, my leddy,” he said. “ It’s naething but the 
mad laird. He’s a quaiet cratur eneuch, only he disna ken 
whaur he comes frae — he disna ken whaur onything comes frae — 
an’ he canna bide it. But he wadna hurt leevin’ cratur, the laird.” 

“ What a dreadful face ! ” said the girl, shuddering. 

“ It’s no an ill-faured face,” said Malcolm, “ only the stonrds 
frichtit him by ord’nar, an’ it’s unco ghaistly the noo.” 

“ Is there nothing to be done for him?” she said compsssion- 
ately. 

“ No upo’ this side the grave, I doobt, my leddy,” answered 
Malcolm. 

Here coming to herself, the girl became aware of her support, 
and laid her hand on Malcolm’s to remove his arm. H< obeyed 
instantly, and she said nothing. 

“ There was some speech,” he went on hurriedly, with a quaver 
in his voice, “ o’ pittin’ him intill the asylum at Aberdeen, an* 
no lattin* him scoor the queentry this gait, they said ; but it wad 
bae been sheer cruelty, for the cratur likes naething sae weel as 
rinnin’ aboot, an’ does no’ mainner o’ hurt. A verra bairn can 
guide him. An’ he has jist as guid a richt to the leeberty God 


THE STORM. 89 

gies him as ony man alive, an’ mair nor a hantle (mere than 

many)'' 

“ h nothing known about him?” 

“ A’ thing’s known aboot him, my leddy, ’at ’s known aboot 
the lave (rest) o’ ’s. His father was the laird o’ Gersefell — an’ 
for that maitter he’s laird himsel’ noo. But they say he’s taen sic 
a scunner (disgust) at his mither, that he canna bide the verra word 
o’ mither ; he jist cries oot whan he hears ’t.” 

“ It seems clearing,” said Florimel. 

“ I doobt it’s only haudin’ up for a wee,” returned Malcolm, 
after surveying as much of the sky as was visible through the 
bars ; “ but I do think ye had better rin for the hoose, my leddy. 
I s’ jist follow ye, a feow yairds ahin’, till I see ye safe. Dinna 
ye be feared — I s’ tak guid care : I wadna hae ye seen i’ the 
company o’ a fisher-lad like me.” 

There was no doubting the perfect simplicity with which this 
was said, and the girl took no exception. They left the tunnel, 
and skirting the bottom of the little hill on which stood the 
temple of the winds, were presently in the midst of a young 
wood, through which a gravelled path led towards the House. 
But they had not gone far ere a blast of wind, more violent than 
any that had preceded it, smote the wood, and the trees, young 
larches and birches and sycamores, bent streaming before it. 
Lady Florimel turned to see where Malcolm was, and her hair 
went from her like a Maenad’s, while her garments flew fluttering 
and straining, as if struggling to carry her off. She had never in 
her life before been out in a storm, and she found the battle 
joyously exciting. The roaring of the wind in the trees was 
grand ; and what seemed their terrified struggles while they 
bowed and writhed and rose but to bow again, as in mad effort 
to unfix their earth-bound roots and escape, took such sympa- 
thetic h 1 J of her imagination, that she flung out her arms, and 
began to dance and whirl as if herself the genius of the storm. 
Malcolm, who had been some thirty paces behind, was with her 
in a moment. 

“ Isn’t it splendid?” she cried. 

“ It blaws weel — verra near as weel ’s my daddy,” said Mal- 
colm, enjoying it quite as much as the girl. 

•« How dare you make game of such a grand uproar?” said 
Flonmel with superiority. 

“Mak ghem o’ a blast o’ win’ by comparin’ ’t to my gran’- 
father ! ” exclaimed Malcolm. “ Hoot, my leddy ! its a coam- 
plement to the biggest blast ’at ever blew to be compairt till an 
auld man like him . I’m ower used to them to min’ them muckle 


90 


MALCOLM. 


mysel’, ’cep* to fecht wi’ them. But whan I watch the sea-goos 
dartin’ like arrow-heids throu’ the win*, I sometimes think it 
maun be gran’ for the angels to caw aboot great flags o’ wings m 
a mortal warstle wi’ sic a hurricane as this.” 

“ I don't understand you one bit,” said Lady Florimel \ ettt* 
lantly. 

As she spoke, she went on, but, the blast having abated, Mal- 
colm lingered, to place a proper distance between them. 

“ You needn’t keep so far behind,” said Florimel, looking 
back. 

“ As yer leddyship pleases,” answered Malcolm, an' : was at 
once by her side. “ I'll gang till ye tell me to staff. — Eh, sae 
different ’s ye look frae the ither mornin’ !” 

“ What morning?” 

u Whan ye was siftin' at the fut o' the bored craig.” 

“ Bored craig 1 What’s that I” 

“ The rock wi’ a hole throu’ ’it. Ye ken the rock weel eneuch, 
my leddy. Ye was sittin’ at the fut o’ 't, readin’ yer buik, a<3 
white ’s gien ye had been made o’ snaw. It cam to me that the 
rock waa the sepulchre, the hole the open door o’ ’t, an’ yersel* 
ane o’ the angels that had faulded his wings an’ -was waitin’ for 
somebody to tell the guid news till, that he was up an awa’.” 

“ And what do I look like to-day?” she asked. 

“ Ow ! the day, ye luik like some cratur o’ the storm ; or the 
storm ltsel’ takin’ a leevin’ shape, an' the bonniest it could ; or 
maybe, like Ahriel, gaein’ afore the win’, wi’ the blast in ’s feathers, 
rufflin’ them ’a gaits at ance.” 

“ Who’s Ahriel?” 

“ Ow, the fleein’ cratur i’ the Tempest! But in your bonny 
southern speech, I daursay ye wad ca’ him — or her, I dirma ken 
whilk the cratur was — ye wad ca’ ’t Ayriel?” 

“ I don’t know anything about him or her or it,” said Lady 
Florimel 

“ Ye’ll hae a’ aboct him up i’ the libbrary there though,” said 
Malcolm. “ The Tempest’s the only ane o’ Shakspere’s plays 'at 
I hae read, but it’s a gran’ ane, as Maister Graham has empooered 
me to see.” 

“ Oh, dear !” exclaimed Florimel, “ I’ve lost my book !” 

“ I’ll gang back an’ luik for ’t this meenute, my leddy,” said 
Malcolm. “ I ken ilka fit o’ the road we’ve come, an’ it’s no 
possible but I fa’ in wi’ ’t. — Ye’ll sune be hame noo, an’ it'll 
hardly be on again afore ye win in,” he added, looking up at 
th* ^k>uds. 

* i$ut how am I to get it ? I want it very much ” 


THE STORM. 


91 


“ I’ll jest fess *t up to the Hoose, an’ say ’at I fan’ ’t whaur I 
will fin’ ’t. But I wiss ye wad len’ me yer pocket-nepkin to row 
’t in, for I’m feared for blaudin’ ’t afore I get it back to ye.” 

Florimel gave him her handkerchief, and Malcolm took his 
leave, saying. — 

“ I’ll be up i’ the coorse o’ a half-hoar at farthest.” 

The humble devotion and absolute service of the youth, re- 
sembling that of a noble dog, however unlikely to move admira- 
tion in Lady Florimel’s heart, could not fail to give her a quiet 
and welcome pleasure. He was an inferior who could be de- 
pended upon, and his worship was acceptable. Not a fear of his 
attentions becoming troublesome ever crossed her mind. The 
wider and more impassable the distinctions of rank, the more 
possible they make it for artificial minds to enter into simply 
human relations ; the easier for the oneness of the race to assert 
itself, in the offering and acceptance of a devoted service. There 
is more, of the genuine human in the relationship between some 
men and their servants, than between those men and their own 
sons. 

With eyes intent, and keen as those of a gaze-hound, Malcolm 
retraced every step, up to the grated door. But no volume was 
to be seen. Turning from the door of the tunnel, for which he 
had no Sesame , he climbed to the foot of the wall that crossed it 
above, and with a bound, a clutch at the top, a pull and a 
scramble, was in the high road in a moment. From the road to 
the links was an easy drop, where, starting from the grated door, 
he retraced their path from the dune. Lady Florimel had 
diopped the book when she rose, and Malcolm found it lying 
on the sand, little the worse. He wrapped it in its owner’s 
handkerchief, and set out for the gate at the mouth of the river. 

As he came up to it, the keeper, an ill-conditioned snarling 
fellow, who, in the phrase of the Seaton-folk, “ rade on the riggin 
(; ridge ) o’ ’s authority,” rushed out of the lodge, and just as Mal- 
colm was entering, shoved the gate in his face. 

“Ye comena in wi’oot the leave o’ me,” he cried, with a 
vengeful expression. 

“ What’s that for?” said Malcolm, who had already interposed 
his great boot, so that the spring-bolt could not reach its catch. 

“ There s’ nae lan’-loupin’ rascals come in here,” said Bykes, 
setting his shoulder to the gate. 

That instant he went staggering back to the wall of the lodge, 
with the gate after him. 

“ Stick to the wa’ there,” said Malcolm, as he strode in. 

The keeper pursued him with frantic abuse, but he never 


9 * 


MALCOLM , ; 


turned his head. Arrived at the House, he committed the 
volume to the cook, with a brief account of where he had picked 
it up, begging her to inquire whether it belonged to the House. 
The cook sent a maid with it to Lady Fiorimel, and Malcolm 
waited until she returned — with thanks and a half-crown. He 
took the money, and returned by the upper gate through the 
town. 


CHAPTER XV I L 

THE ACCUSATION. 

The next morning, soon after their early breakfast, the gate- 
keeper stood in the door of Duncan MacPhail’s cottage, with a 
verbal summons for Malcolm to appear before his lordship. 

“ An’ I’m no to lowse sicht o’ ye till ye hae put in yer appear- 
ance,” he added ; “ sae gien ye dinna come peaceable, I maun 
gar ye.” 

“ Whaur’s yer warrant?” asked Malcolm coolly. 

“Ye wad hae the impidence to deman’ my warrant, ye young 
sorner!” cried Bykes indignantly. “ Come yer wa’s, my man, or 
I s’ gar ye smairt for ’t.” 

“ Haud a quaiefc sough, an’ gang hame for yer warrant,” said 
Malcolm. “,It’s lyin’ there, doobtless, or ye wadna hae daured 
to shaw yer face on sic an eeran’.” 

Duncan, who was dozing in his chair, awoke at the sound of 
high words. His jealous affection perceived at once that Mal- 
colm was being insulted. He sprang to his feet, stepped swiftly 
to the Vv r all, caught down his broadsword, and rushed to the door, 
making the huge weapon quiver and whir about his head as if it 
had been a slip of tin-plate. 

“ Where is ta rascal ? ” he shouted. “ She’ll cut him town ! 
Show her ta lowlan’ thief ! She’ll cut him town ! Who’ll be 
insulting her Malcolm ? ” 

But Bykes, at first sight of the weapon, had vanished in 
dismay. 

“ Hoot toot, daddy,” said Malcolm, taking him by the arm ; 
“ there’s naebody here. The puir cratur couldna bide the sough 
o’ the claymore. He fled like the autumn wind over the stubble. 
There’s Ossian for’t.” 

“ Ta Lord pe praised ! ” cried Duncan. “ She’ll be confounded 
her foes. But what would ta rascal pe wanting, my son ? ” 


THE A CCUS A TIC 27. 


93 

Leading him hack to his chair, Malcolm told him as much as 
he knew of the matter. 

“ Ton’t you co for no warrant,” said Duncan. “ If my lort 
marquis will pe senting for you as one chentleman sends for an- 
other, then you co.” 

Within an hour Bykes reappeared, accompanied by one of the 
gamekeepers — an Englishman. The moment he heard the door 
open, Duncan caught again at his broadsword. 

“ We want you, my young man,” said the gamekeeper, standing 
on the threshold, with Bykes peeping over his shoulder, in an 
attitude indicating one foot already lifted to run. 

“ What for? 

“ That’s as may appear.” 

“ Whaur’s yer warrant ? ” 

“ There.” 

“ Lay ’t doon o’ the table, an* gang back to the donr, till I 
get a sklent at it,” said Malcolm. “ Ye’re an b >nest man, Wull 
• — but I wadna lippen a snuff-mull ’at had m; .ir nor ae pinch 
intill ’t wi’ yon cooard cratar ahin’ ye.” 

He was afraid of the possible consequences ot his grandfather’s 
indignation. 

The gamekeeper did at once as he was reoucsted, evidently 
both amused with the bearing of the two men -mi admiring it. 
Having glanced at the paper, Malcolm put it in his pocket, and 
whispering a word to his grandfather, walked away with his 
captors. , 

As they went to the House, Bykes was full of threats of which 
he sought to enhance the awfulness by the indefimteivss ; but 
Will told Malcolm as much as he knew of the matter — namely, 
that the head gamekeeper, having lost some dozen cf his sitting 
pheasants, had enjoined a strict watch ; and that Bvkes having 
caught sight of Malcolm in the very act of getting over the wall, 
had gone and given information against him. 

No one about the premises except Bykes would have been 
capable of harbouring suspicion of Malcolm ; and the head 
gamekeeper had not the slightest ; but, knowing that his lordship 
found little enough to amuse him, and anticipating some laughter 
from the confronting of two such opposite characters, he had 
gone to the marquis with Byke’s report, — and this was the result. 
His lordship was not a magistrate, and the so-calkd warrant was 
merely a somewhat sternly-worded expression of his desire that 
Malcolm should appear and answer to the charge. 

The accused was led into a vaulted chamber opening from the 
hall — a genuine portion, to judge from its deep low-arcM'd 


94 


MALCOLM. 


recesses, the emergence of truncated portions of two or three 
groins, and the thickness of its walls, of the old monastery. Close 
by the door ascended a right-angled modern staircase. 

Lord Lossie entered, and took his seat in a great chair in one 
of the recesses. 

“ So, you young jackanapes ! ” he said, half angry and half 
amused, “ you decline to come, when I send for you, without a 
magistrate’s warrant, forsooth ! It looks bad to begin with, I 
must say ! ” 

“ Yer lordship wad never hae had me come at sic a summons 
as that cankert ted (toad) Johnny Bykes broucht me. Gien ye 
had but hard him ! He spak as gien he had been sent to fess 
me to yer lordship by the scruff o’ the neck, an’ I didna believe 
yer lordship wad do sic a thing. Ony gait, I wasna gaum’ to 
stan’ that. Ye wad hae thocht him a cornel at the sma’est, an* 
me a wheen heerin’-guts. But it wad hae garred ye lauch, my 
lord, to see hoo the body ran whan my blin’ gran’father — he 
canna bide onybody interferin’ wi’ me — made at him wi’ his 
braid svoord ! ” 

“ Ye leein’ rascal!” cried Bykes ; “ — me feared at an auld spidder, 
’at hasna breath eneuch to fill the bag o’ ’s pipes ! ” 

“Caw canny, Johnny Bykes. Gien ye say an ill word o’ my 
grar.’father, I s’ gie your neck a thraw — an’ that the meenute 
we’re oot o’ ’s lordship’s presence.” 

“ Threits ! my lord,” said the gatekeeper, appealing. 

“ And well merited,” returned his lordship. “ — Well, then,” 
he went on, again addressing Malcolm, “What have you to say 
for yourself in regard of stealing my brood pheasants ? ” 

“ Maister MacPherson,” said Malcolm, with an inclination of 
his head towards the gamekeeper, “ micht ha’ fun’ a fitter neuk 
to fling that dirt intill. ’Deed, my lord, it’s sae ridic’lous, it 
hardly angers me. A man ’at can hae a’ the fish i’ the liaill 
ocean for the takin’ o’ them, to be sic a sneck-drawin’ con- 
temptible vratch as tak yer lordship’s bonny hen-craturs frae their 
chuck ies — no to mention the sin o’t ! — it’s past an honest man’s 
denyin’, my lord. An’ Maister MacPherson kens better, for luik 
at him lauchin’ in ’s ain sleeve.” 

“ Well, we’ve no proof of it,” said the marquis ; “ but what do 
you say to the charge of trespass ? ” 

“ The policies hae aye been open to honest fowk, my lord.” 

“ Then where was the necessity for getting in over the wall 1 ” 

“ I beg yer pardon, my lord : ye hae nae proof agen me o’ 
that aither.” 

“ Daur ye tell me” cried Bykes, recovering himself, “ at I 


THE ACCUSATION. 


<55 

didna see ye wi’ my twa een, loup the dyke aneth the temple- 
ay, an’ something flutterin’ unco like bird-wings i’ yer han’ I ** 

“ Oot or in, J ohnny Bykes ? ” 

“Ow! oot.” 

<£ I did loup the dyke my lord ; but it was oot, no ini* 

“ How did you get in then ? ” asked the marquis. 

I gat in, my lord,” began Malcolm, and ceased. 

“ How did you get in ? repeated the marquis.” 

“ Ow ! there’s mony w’ys o’ winnin’ in, my lord. The last 
time I cam in but ane, it was ’maist ower the carcass o’ Johnny 
there, wha wad fain hae hauden me oot, only he hadna my 
blin’ daddy ahint him to ile ’s jints.” 

“An’ dinna ye ca’ that brakin’ in ?” said Bykes. 

“ Na ; there was naething to brak, ’cep it had been your banes, 
Johnny ; an’ that wad hae been a peety — they’re sae guid for 
rinnin’ wi’.” 

“ You had no right to enter against the will of mv gatekeeper,” 
said his lordship. “ What is a gatekeeper for 1 ” 

“ I had a richt, my lord, sae lang ’s I was ups’ my leddy’s 
business.” 

“And what was my lady’s business, pray?” questioned the 
marquis. 

“ I faun’ a buik upo’ the links, my lord, which was like to be 
hers, wi’ the twa beasts ’at stans at yer lordship’s door inside the 
brod {board) o’ ’t. An’ sae it turned oot to be whan I took it up 
to the Hoose. There’s the half-croon she gae me.” 

Little did Malcolm think where the daintiest of pearly ears were 
listening, and the brightest of blue eyes looking down, half 
in merriment, a qtarter in anxiety, and the remaining quarter in 
interest ! On a landing half way up the stair, stood Lady 
Florimel, peeping over the balusters, afraid to fix her eyes uporu 
him lest she should make him look up. 

“Yes, yes, I daresay!” acquiesced the marquis; “but,” he 
persisted, “what I want to know is,- l ow you got in that time. 
You seem to have some reluctance to answer the question.” 

“ Weel, I hev, my lord.” 

“ Then I must insist on your doing so.” 

“ Weel, I jist winna, my lord. It was a’ strati cht foret an’ fair ; 
an’ gien yer lordship war i’ my place, ye wadna say mair yersel’.” 

“ He’s been after one of the girls about the place,” whispered 
the marquis to the gamekeeper. 

“ Speir at him, my lord, gien ’t please yer lordship, what it was 
he hed in ’s han’ whan he lap the park-wa’,” said Bykes. 

“Gien ’t be a’ ane till ’s lordship,” said Malcolm, without 


MALCOLM. 


& 

lookirg at Bykes, “it wad be better no to speir, for it gangs sair 
agen me to refeese him.” 

“ I should like to know,” said the marquis. 

“Ye maun trust me, my lord, that I was efter no ill. I gie ye 
my word for that, my lord.” 

“ But how am I to know what your word is worth ?” returned 
Lord Lossie, well pleased with the dignity of the youth’s 
behaviour. 

“ To ken what a body’s word ’s worth ye maun trust him first, 
my lord. It’s no muckle trust I want o’ ye : it comes but to this 
— that I hae rizzons, guid to me, an’ no ill to you gien ye kent 
them, for not answerin’ yer lordship’s questions. I’m no denyin’ 
a word ’at Johnny Bykes says. I never hard the cratur ca’d a 
leear. He’s but a cantankerous argle-barglous body — no fit to be 
a gatekeeper ’cep it was up upo’ the Binn-side, whaur ’maist nae- 
body gangs oot or in. He wad maybe be safter-hertit till a 
fellow-cratur syne.” 

“Would you have him let in all the tramps in the country?” 
said the marquis. 

“ De’il ane o’ them, my Lord ; but I wad hae him no trouble 
the likes o’ me ’at fesses the fish to your lordship’s brakwast : 
sic ’s no like to be efter mischeef.” 

“There is some glimmer of sense in what you say,” returned 
his lordship. “ But you know it won’t do to let anybody that 
pleases get over the park-walls. Why didn’t you go out at tne 
gate ?” 

“ The burn was atween me an’ hit, an’ it’s a lang road roon’.” 

“ Well, I must lay some penalty upon you, to deter others,” said 
the marquis. 

“ Vi *ra well, my lord. Sae lang ’s it’s fair, I s’ bide it ohn 
gnitten ( without weeping)!* 

“ It shan’t be too hard. It’s just this — to give John Bykes the 
thrashing he deserves, as soo 1 as you’re out of sight of the 
House.” 

“ Na, na, my lord ; I canna do that,” said Malcolm. 

“ So you’re afraid of him, after all !” 

“ Feared at Johnnie Bykes, my lord ! Ha ! ha !* 

“You threatened him a minute ago, and now, when I give you 
leave to thrash him, you decline the honour 1” 

“ The disgrace, my lord. He’s an aulder man, an’ no abune 
half the size. But fegs ! gien he says anither word agen my 
gran’father, I will gie ’s neck a bit thraw.” 

“Well, well, be off with you both,” said the marquis rising. 

No one heard the rustle of Lady Florimel’s dress as she sped 


THE QUARREL, 


C7 

up the stair, thinking with herself how very odd it was to have a 
secret with a fisherman ; for a secret it was, seeing the reticence 
of Malcolm l«ta been a relief to her, when she shrunk from what 
seemed the imminent mention of her name in the affair before the 
servants. She had even felt a touch of mingled admiration and 
gratitude when she found what a faithful squire he was — capable 
of an absolute obstinacy indeed, where she was concerned. For her 
own sake as well as his she was glad that he had got off so well, 
for otherwise she would have felt bound to tell her father the whole 
story, and she was not at all so sure as Maicolm that he would 
have been satisfied with his reasons , and would not have been in- 
dignant with the fellow for presuming even to be silent concerning 
his daughter. Indeed Lady Florimel herself felt somewhat irritated 
with him, as having brought her into the awkward situation of 
sharing a secret with a youth cf his position. 


CHAPTER XVIIL 

THE QUARREL. 

For a few days the weather was dull and unsettled, with cold 
flaws, and an occasional sprinkle of rain. But after came a still 
gray morning, warm and hopeful, and ere noon the sun broke out, 
the mists vanished, and the day was glorious in blue and gold. 
Maicolm had been to Scaurnose, to see his friend J oseph Mair, 
and was descending the steep path down the side of the pro- 
montory, on his way home, when his keen eye caught sight of a 
form on the slope of the dune which could hardly be other than 
that of Lady Florimel. She did not lift her eyes until he came 
quite near, and then only to drop them again with no mor Q 
recognition than if he had been any other of the fishermen. 
Already more than half-inclined to pick a quarrel with him, she 
fancied that, presuming upon their very common-place adventure 
and its resulting secret, he approached her with an assurance he 
had never manifested before, and her head was bent motionless 
over her book when he stood and addressed her. 

“ My leddy,” he began, with his bonnet by his knee. 

“Well?” she returned, without even lifting her eyes, for, with 
the inherited privilege of her rank, she could be insolent with 
coolness, and call it to mind without remorse. 

u 


93 


MALCOLM. 


“ I Iioup the bit buikie wasna muckle the warn*, my leddy,” he 
said. 

“ ’Tis of r»o consequence,” she replied. 

“ Gien it w*i mine, I wadna think sae,” he returned, eyeing her 
anxiously. “ — Here’s yer leddy-ship’s pocket-nepkin,” he went 
on. “I hae keepit it ready rowed up, ever sin’ my daddy washed 
it oot. It’s no ill dune for a blin’ man, as ye’ll see, an’ I ironed 
it mysel’ as weel’s I cud.” 

As he spoke he unfolded a piece of brown paper, disclosing a 
little parcel in a cover of immaculate post, which he humbly 
offered her. 

Taking it slowly from his hand, she laid it on the ground beside 
her with a stiff “ Thank you ,” and a second dropping of her eyes 
that seemed meant to close the interview. 

“ I doobt my company’s no welcome the day, my leddy,” said 
Malcolm with trembling voice ; “but there’s ae thing I maun 
refar till. Whan I took hame yer leddyship’s buik the ither day, 
ye sent me half a croon by the han’ o’ yer servan’ lass. Afore 
her I wasna gaein’ to disalloo onything ye pleased wi’ regaird to 
me ; an’ I thocht wi’ mysel’ it was maybe necessar’ for yer leddy- 
ship’s dignity an’ the luik o’ things ” 

“ How dare you hint at any understanding between you and 
me?” exclaimed the girl in cold anger. 

“ Lord, mem ! what hev I said to fess sic a fire-flauchl oot o’ 
yer bonny een ? I thocht ye only did it ’cause ye wad na like to 
luik shabby afore the lass — no giein’ onything to the lad ’at 
brocht ye yer ain — an’ lippened to me to unnerstan’ ’at ye did it 
but for the luik o’ the thing, as I say.” 

He had taken the coin from his pocket, and had been busy 
while he spoke rubbing it in a handful of sand, so that it was 
bright as new when he now offered it. 

“ You are quite mistaken,” she rejoined, ungraciously. “ You 
insult me by supposing 1 meant you to return it.” 

“ Div ye think I cud bide to be paid for a turn till a neebor, 
lat alane the liftin’ o’ a buik till a leddy?” said Malcolm with 
keen mortification. “ That wad be to despise mysel’ frae keel to 
truck. I like to be paid for my wark, an’ I like to be paid weel : 
but no a plack by sic-like (beyo?id such) sail stick to my loof 
( pahn ). It can be no offence to gie ye back yer half-croon, my 
leddy.” 

And again he offered the coin. 

“ I don’t in the least see why, on your own principles, you 
shouldn’t take the money,” said the girl, with more than the 
coldness of an uninterested umpire. “You worked for it, I’m 


THE QUARREL. 


99 


sure- — first accompanying me home in such a storm, and then 
finding the book and bringing it back all the way to the house ! ” 

“ 'Deed, my leddy, sic a doctrine wad tak a’ grace oot o’ the 
earth ! What wad this life be worth gien a’ was to be peyed for? 
I wad cut my throat afore I wad bide in sic a warl’. — Tak yer 
half-croon, my leddy,” he concluded, in a tone of entreaty. 

But the energetic outburst was sufficing, in such her mood, only 
to the disgust of Lady Florimel. 

“ Do anything with the money you please ; only go away, and 
don’t plague me about it,” she said freezingly. 

“What can I du wi’ what I wadna pass throu’ my fingers?* 
said Malcolm with the patience of deep disappointment. 

“ Give it to some poor creature : you know some one who would 
be glad of it, I daresay.” 

“ I ken mony ane, my leddy, wham it wad weel become yer 
ain bonny han’ to gie ’t till ; but I’m no gaffin' to tak’ credit fer 
a leeberality that wad ill become me.” 

“You can tell how you earned it.” 

“ And profess mysel’ disgraced by takin’ a reward frae a born 
leddy for what I wad hae dune for ony beggar wife i’ the lan’. 
Na, na, my leddy.” 

“Your services are certainly flattering, when you put me on a 
level with any beggar in the country ! ” 

“ In regaird o’ sic service, my leddy : ye ken weel eneuch what 
I mean. Obleege me by takin’ back yer siller.” 

“ How dare you ask me to take back what I once gave?” 

“Ye cudna hae kent what ye was doin’ whan ye gae ’t, my 
leddy. Tak it back, an tak a hunnerweicht aff o’ my hert.” 

He actually mentioned his heart! — was it to be borne by a girl 
in Lady Florimel’s mood? 

“ I beg you will not annoy me,” she said, muffling her anger 
in folds of distance, and again sought her book. 

Malcolm looked at her for a moment, then turned his face 
towards the sea, and for another moment stood silent. Lady 
Florimel glanced up, but Malcolm was unaware of her movement. 
He lifted his hand, and looked at the half-crown gleaming on 
his palm ; then, with a sudden poise of his body, and a sudden 
fierce action of his arm, he sent the coin, swift with his heart’s 
repudiation, across the sands into the tide. Ere it struck the 
water, he had turned, and, with long stride but low-bent head, 
walked away. A pang shot to Lady Florimel’s heart 

“ Malcolm ! ” she cried. 

He turned instantly, came slpwly back, and stood erect and 
6ilent before her. 


ICO 


MALCOLM. 


She must say something. Her eye fell on the little parcel 
beside her, and she spoke the first thought that came. 

“ Will you take this ? ” she said, and offered him the handker- 
chief. 

In a dazed way he put out his hand and took it, staring at it 
as if he did not know what it was. 

“ It’s some sair ! ” he said at length, with a motion of his 
hands as if to grasp his head between them. “Ye winna tak 
even the washin o’ a pocket-nepkin frae me, an’ ye wad gar me 
tak a haill half-croon frae yersel’ ! Mem, ye’re a gran* leddy an’ 
a bonny ; an ye hae turns aboot ye, gien ’twar but the set o’ yer 
heid, ’at micht gar an angel lat fa’ what he was carryin’, but afore 
I wad affront ane that wantit naething o’ me but gude will, I wad 
— I wad — raither be the fisher-lad that I am.” 

A weak-kneed peroration, truly ; but Malcolm was over- 
burdened at last. He laid the little parcel on the sand at her 
feet, almost reverentially, and again turned. But Lady Florimel 
spoke again. 

“It is you who are affronting me now,” she said gently. 
“ When a lady gives her handkerchief to a gentleman, it is com- 
monly received as a very great favour indeed.” 

“ Gien I hae made a mistak, my leddy, I micht weel mak it, 
no bein’ a gentleman, and no bein’ used to the traitment o’ 
ane. But I doobt gien a gentleman wad ha’ surmised what ye 
was efter wi’ yer nepkin’, gien ye had offert him half a croon 
first.” 

“ Oh, yes, he would — perfectly ! ” said Florimel with an air of 

offence. 

“ Then, my leddy, for the first time i’ my life, I wish I had 
been bom a gentleman.” 

“ Then I certainly wouldn’t have given it you,” said Florimel 
with perversity. 

“YVhat for no, my leddy? I dinna unnerstan’ ye again. 
There maun be an unco differ atween ’s ! ” 

“ Because a gentleman would have presumed on such a 
favour.” 

“I’m glaidder nor ever ’at I wasna bom ane,” said Malcolm, 
and, slowly stooping, he lifted the handkerchief ; “ an’ I was aye 
glaid o’ that, my leddy, ’cause gien I had been, I wad hae been 
luikin’ doon upo’ workin’ men like mysel’ as gien they warna 
freely o' the same flesh an’ blude. But I beg yer leddyship’s 
pardon for takin’ ye up amiss. An* sae lang’s I live, I’ll regaird 
this as ane o’ her fedders ’at the angel moutit as she sat by the 
bored craig. An’ whan I’m deid, I’ll hae ’t laid upo' my lace, 


THE QUARREL, ioi 

an* svne, maybe, I may get a sicht o’ ye as I pass. Guid-day 

my leddy.” 

“ Good-day,” she returned kindly. “ I wish my father would 
let me have a row in your boat.” 

“ It’s at yer service whan ye please, my leddy,” said Malcolm. 

One who had caught a glimpse of the shining yet solemn eyes 
of the youth, as he walked home, would wonder no longer that 
he should talk as he did — so sedately, yet so poetically — so 
long-windedly, if you like, yet so sensibly — even wisely. 

Lady Florimel lay on the sand, and sought again to read the 
“ Faerie Queene.” But for the last day or two she had been 
getting tired of it, and now the forms that entered by her eyes 
dropped half their substance and all their sense in the porch, and 
thronged her brain with the mere phantoms of things, with words 
that came and went and were nothing. Abandoning the harvest 
of chaff, her eyes rose and looked cut upon the sea. Never, even 
from tropical shore, was richer-hued ocean beheld. Gorgeous 
in purple and green, in shadowy blue and flashing gold, it seemed 
to Malcolm, as if at any moment the ever new-born Anadyomene 
might lift her shining head from the wandering floor, and float 
away in her pearly lustre to gladden the regions where the glaciers 
glide seawards in irresistible silence, there to give birth to the 
icebergs in tumult and thunderous uproar. But Lady Florimel 
felt merely the loneliness. One deserted boat lay on the long 
sand, like the bereft and useless half of a double shell. Without 
show of life the moveless cliffs lengthened far into a sea where 
neither white sail deepened the purple and gold, nor red one 
enriched it with a colour it could not itself produce. Neither 
hope nor aspiration awoke in her heart at the sight. Was she 
beginning to be tired of her companionless liberty? Had the 
long stanzas, bound by so many interwoven links of rhyme, 
ending in long Alexandrines, the long cantos, the lingering sweet- 
ness long drawn out through so many unended books, begun to 
weary her at last ? Had even a quarrel with a fisher-lad been a 
little pastime to her? and did she now wish she had detained 
him a little longer ? Could she take any interest in him beyond 
such as she took in Demon, her father’s dog, or Brazenose, his 
favourite horse? 

Whatever might be her thoughts or feelings at this moment, it 
remained a fact, that Florimel Colonsay, the daughter of a 
marquis, and Malcolm, the grandson of a blind piper, were 
woman and man — and the man the finer of the two this time. 

As Malcolm passed on his way one of the three or four 
solitary rocks which rose from the sand, the skeleton remnant? 


ro2 


MALCOLM. 


of larger masses worn down by wind, wave, and weather, he 
heard his own name uttered by an unpleasant voice, and followed 
by a more unpleasant laugh. 

He knew both the voice and the laugh, and, turning, saw Mrs 
Catanach, seated, apparently busy with her knitting, in the shade 
of the rock. 

“ Weel ? ” he said curtly. 

“ Weel ! — Set ye up ! — Wha’s yon ye was play actin’ wi’ oot 

yonner ? ” 

“ Wha telled ye to speir, Mistress Catanach ? ” 

“Ay, ay, laad! Ye’ll be abune speykin’ till an auld wife efter 
colloguin’ wi’ a yoong ane, an’ sic a ane ! Isna she bonny, 
Malkie ? Isna hers a winsome shape an’ a lauchin’ ee ? Didna 
she draw ye on, an’ luik i’ the hawk’s-een o’ ye, an’ lay herself 
oot afore ye, an’ ? ” 

“ She did naething o’ the sort, ye ill-tongued wuman ! ” said 
Malcolm in anger. 

“ Ho ! ho ! ” trumpeted Mrs Catanach. “ Ill-tongued, am I? 
An’ what neist ? ” 

“ Ill-deedit,’’ returned Malcolm, “ — whan ye flang my bonny 
salmon-troot till yer oogly deevil o’ a dog.” 

“ Ho ! ho ! ho ! Ill-deedit, am I ? I s’ no forget thae bonny 
names ! Maybe yer lordship wad alloo me the leeberty o’ speirin’ 
anither question at ye, Ma’colm MacPhail.” 

“ Ye may speir ’at ye like, sae lang ’s ye canna gar me stan’ to 
hearken. Guid-day to ye, Mistress Catanach. Yer company 
was nane o’ my seekin’ : I may lea’ ’t whan I like.” 

“ Dinna ye be ower sure o’ that,” she called after him 
venomously. 

But Malcolm turned his head no more. 

As soon as he was out of sight, Mrs Catanach rose, ascended 
the dune, and propelled her rotundity along the yielding top of 
it. When she arrived within speaking distance of Lady Florimel, 
who lay lost in her dreary regard of sand and sea, she paused for 
a moment, as if contemplating her. 

Suddenly, almost by Lady Florimel’s side, as if he had risen 
from the sand, stood the form of the mad laird. 

“ I dinna ken whaur I come frae,” he said. 

Lady Florimel started, half rose, and seeing the dwarf so near, 
and on the other side of her a repulsive-looking woman staring at 
her, sprung to her feet and fled. The same instant the mad 
laird, catching sight of Mrs Catanach, gave a cry of misery, thrust 
his fingers in his ears, darted down the other side of the dune, 
and sped along the shore. Mrs. Catanach shook with laughter. 


DUNCAN'S PIPES . 


103 

u I hae skaiRed ( dispersed ) the bonny doos ! ” she said TheD 
she called aloud after the flying girl, — 

“ My leddy ! My bonny leddy ! ” 

Florimel paid no heed, but ran straight for the dcor of the 
tunnel, and vanished. Thence leisurely climbing to the temple 
of the winds, she looked down from a height of safety upon the 
shore and the retreating figure of Mrs. Catanach. Seating her- 
self by the pedestal of the trumpet-blowing Wind, she assayel 
her reading again, but was again startled — this time by a rough 
salute from Demon. Presently her father appeared, and Lady 
Florimel felt something like a pang of relief at being found there, 
and not on the farther side of the dune making it up with 
Malcolm. 


CHAPTER XIX 
duncan’s pipes. 

A few days after the events last narrated, a footman in the 
marquis’s livery entered the Seaton, snuffing with emphasized 
discomposure the air of the village, all-ignorant of the risk he ran 
in thus openly manifesting his feelings ; for the women at least 
were good enough citizens to resent any indignity offered their 
town. As vengeance would have it, Meg Partan was the first of 
whom, with supercilious airs and “ clippit ” tongue, he requested 
to know where a certain blind man, who played on an instrument 
called the bagpipes, lived. 

“ Spit i’ yer loof an’ caw ( search ) for him,” she answered — a 
reply of which he understood the tone and one disagreeable 
word. 

With reddening cheek he informed her that he came on his 
lord’s business. 

“ I dinna doobt it,” she retorted ; “ ye luik sic-like as rins ither 
fowk’s eeran’s.” 

« I should be obliged if you would inform me where the man 
lives,” returned the lackey — with polite words in supercilious 
tones. 

“ What d’ ye want wi’ him, honest man ? ” grimly questioned 
the Partaness, the epithet referring to Duncan, and not the 
questioner. 

“That I shall have the honour of informing himself^” he 
replied 


104 


MALCOLM , . 


“ Wed, ye can hae the honour o’ informin' yersel’ whaur he 
bides,” she rejoined, and turned away from her open door. 

All were not so rude as she, however, for he found at length a 
little girl willing to show him the way. 

The style in which his message was delivered was probably 
modified by the fact that he found Malcolm seated with his 
grandfather at their evening meal of water-brose and butter ; for 
he had been present when Malcolm was brought before the 
marquis by Bykes, and had in some measure comprehended the 
nature of the youth : it was in politest phrase, and therefore 
entirely to Duncan’s satisfaction in regard of the manner as well 
as matter of the message, that he requested Mr Duncan 
MacPhail’s attendance on the marquis the following evening at 
six o’clock, to give his lordship and some distinguished visitors 
the pleasure of hearing him play on the bagpipes during dessert 
To this summons the old man returned stately and courteous 
reply, couched in the best English he could command, which, 
although considerably distorted by Gaelic pronunciation and 
idioms, was yet sufficiently intelligible to the messenger, who 
carried home the substance for the satisfaction of his master, and 
what he could of the form for the amusement of his fellow- 
servants. 

Duncan, although he received it with perfect calmness, was 
yet overjoyed at the invitation. He fiad performed once or 
twice before the late marquis, and having ever since assumed the 
style of Piper to the Marquis of Lossie, now regarded the sum- 
mons as confirmation in the office. The moment the sound of 
the messenger’s departing footsteps died away, he caught up his 
pipes from the comer, where, like a pet cat, they lay on a bit of 
carpet, the only piece in the cottage, spread for them between 
his chair and the wall, and, though cautiously mindful of its age 
and proved infirmity, filled the bag full, and burst into such a 
triumphant onset of battle, that all the children of the Seaton 
were in a few minutes crowded about the door. Pie had not 
played above five minutes, however, when the love of finery 
natural to the Gael, the Gaul, the Galatian, triumphed over his 
love of music, and he stopped with an abrupt groan of the instru- 
ment to request Malcolm to get him new streamers. Whatever 
his notions of its nature might be, he could not come of the 
Celtic race without having in him somewhere a strong faculty for 
colour, and no doubt his fancy regarding it was of something as 
glorious as his knowledge of it must have been vague. At all 
events he not only knew the names of the colours in ordinary 
use, but could describe many of the clan-tartans with perfect 


DUNCAN'S PIPES. 


105 


accuracy ; and he now gave Malcolm complete instructions as to 
the hues of the ribbons he was to purchase. As soon as he had 
started on the important mission, the old man laid aside his in- 
strument, and taking his broadsword from the wall, proceeded 
with the aid of brick-dust and lamp-oil, to furbish hilt and blade 
with the utmost care, searching out spot after spot of rust, to the 
smallest, with the delicate points of his great bony fingers. 
Satisfied at length of its brightness, he requested Malcolm, who 
had returned long before the operation was over, to bring him 
the sheath, which, for fear of its coming to pieces, so old and 
crumbling was the leather, he kept laid up in the drawer with his 
sporran and his Sunday coat. His next business, for he would 
not commit it to Malcolm, was to adorn the pipes with the new 
streamers. Asking the colour of each, and going by some prin- 
ciple of arrangement known only to himself, he affixed them, one 
after the other, as he judged right, shaking and drawing out each 
to its full length with as much pride as if it had been a tone 
instead of a ribbon. This done, he resumed his playing, and 
continued it, notwithstanding the remonstrances of his grandson, 
until bedtime. 

That night he slept but little, and as the day went on grew more 
and more excited. Scarcely had he swallowed his twelve o’clock 
dinner of sowens and oat-cake, when he wanted to go and dress 
himself for his approaching visit. Malcolm persuaded him how- 
ever to lie down a while and hear him play, and succeeded, 
strange as it may seem with such an instrument, in lulling him 
to sleep. But he had not slept more than five minutes when he 
sprung from the bed, wide awake, crying — 

" My poy, Malcolm ! my son ! you haf let her sleep in ; and 
ta creat peoples will be impatient for her music, and cursing her 
in teir hearts ! ” 

Nothing would quiet him but the immediate commencement 
of the process of dressing, the result of which was, as I have 
said, even pathetic, from its intermixture of shabbiness and 
finery. The dangling brass-capped tails of his sporran in front, 
the silver-mounted dirk on one side, with its hilt of black oak 
carved into an eagle’s head, and the steel basket of his broadsword 
gleaming at the other; his great shoulder-brooch of rudely 
chased brass ; the pipes with their withered bag and gaudy 
streamers ; the faded kilt, oiled and soiled ; the stockings darned 
in twenty places by the hands of the termagant Meg Partan ; the 
brogues patched and patched until it would have been hard to 
tell a spot of the original leather ; the round blue bonnet grown 
gray with wind and weather : the belts that looked like old 


io6 


MALCOLM, 


harness ready to yield at a pull ; his skene dhu sticking out grim 
and black beside a knee like a lean knuckle : — all combined to 
form a picture ludicrous to a vulgar nature, but gently pitiful to 
the lover of his kind. He looked like a half-mouldered warrior, 
waked from beneath an ancient cairn, to walk about in a world 
other than he took it to be. Malcolm, in his common-place 
Sunday suit, served as a foil to his picturesque grandfather ; to 
whose oft reiterated desire that he would wear the highland dress, 
he had hitherto returned no other answer than a humorous 
representation of the different remarks with which the neighbours 
would encounter such a solecism. 

The whole Seaton turned out to see them start. Men, women, 
and children lined the fronts and gables of the houses they must 
pass on their way ; for everybody knew where they were going, 
and wished them good luck. As if he had been a great bard 
with a henchman of his own, Duncan strode along in front, and 
Malcolm followed, carrying the pipes, and regarding his grand- 
father with a mingled pride and compassion lovely to see. But 
as soon as they were beyond the village the old man took the 
young one’s arm, not to guide him, for that was needless, but to 
stay his steps a little, for when dressed he would, as I have said, 
carry no staff; and thus they entered the nearest gate of the 
grounds. Bykes saw them and scoffed, but with discretion, and 
kept out of their way. 

When they reached the house, they were taken to the servants’ 
hall, where refreshments were offered them. The old man ate 
sparingly, saying he wanted all the room for his breath, but 
swallowed a glass of whisky with readiness; for, although he 
never spent a farthing on it, he had yet a highlander’s respect 
for whisky, and seldom refused a glass when offered him. On 
this occasion, besides, anxious to do himself credit as a piper, 
he was well pleased to add a little fuel to the failing fires of old 
age ; and the summons to the dining-room being in his view- 
long delayed, he had, before he left the hall, taken a second 
glass. 

They were led along endless passages, up a winding stone 
stair, across a lobby, and through room after room. 

“ It will pe some glamour, sure, Malcolm !” said Duncan in a 
whisper as they went. 

Requested at length to seat themselves in an ante-room, the air 
of which was filled with the sounds and odours of the neighbour- 
ing feast, they waited again through what seemed to the impatient 
Duncan an hour of slow vacuity ; but at last they were conducted 
into the dining-room. Following their guide, Maicolm led the 


DUNCAN'S PIPES ; 


107 


old man to the place prepared for him at the upper part of the 
room, where the floor was raised a step or two. 

Duncan would, I fancy, even unprotected by his blindness, 
have strode unabashed into the very halls of heaven. As he 
entered there was a hush, for his poverty-stricken age and dignity 
told for one brief moment : then the buzz and laughter recom- 
menced, an occasional oath emphasizing itself in the confused 
noise of the talk, the gurgle of wine, the ring of glass, and the 
chink of china. 

In Malcolm’s vision, dazzled and bewildered at first, things 
soon began to arrange themselves. The walls of the room 
receded to their proper distance, and he saw that they were 
covered with pictures of ladies and gentlemen, gorgeously 
attired ; the ceiling rose and settled into the dim show of a sky, 
amongst the clouds of which the shapes of very solid women and 
children disported themselves ; while about the glittering table, 
lighted by silver candelabra with many branches, he distinguished 
the gaily dressed company, round which, like huge ill-painted 
butterflies, the liveried footmen hovered. His eyes soon found 
the lovely face of Lady Florimel, but after the first glance he 
dared hardly look again. Whether its radiance had any smallest 
source in the pleasure of appearing like a goddess in the eyes of 
her humble servant, I dare not say, but more lucent she could 
hardly have appeared had she been the princess in a fairy tale, 
about to marry her much-thwarted prince. She wore far too 
many jewels for one so young, for her father had given her all 
that belonged to her mother, as well as some family diamonds, 
and her inexperience knew no reason why she should not wear 
them. The diamonds flashed and sparkled and glowed on a 
white rather than fair neck, which, being very much uncollared y 
dazzled Malcolm far more than the jewels. Such a form of 
enhanced loveliness, reflected for the first time in the pure mirror 
of a high-toned manhood, may well be to such a youth as that of 
an angel with whom he has henceforth to wrestle in deadly 
agony until the final dawn; for lofty condition and gorgeous 
circumstance, while combining to raise a woman to an ideal 
height, ill suffice to lift her beyond love, or shield the lowliest 
man from the arrows of'h^r radiation; they leave her human 
still. She was talking and laughing with a young man of weak 
military aspect, whose eyes gazed unshrinking on her beauty. 

The guests were not numerous : a certain bold-faced countess, 
the fire in whose eyes bad begun to tarnish, and the natural lines 
of whose figure were vanishing in expansion ; the soldier, her 
nephew, a waisted elegance ; a long, lean man, who dawdled 


io8 


MALCOLM. 


with what he ate, and drank as if his bones thirsted ; an elderly, 
hroad, red-faced, bull-necked baron of the Hanoverian type ; and 
two neighbouring lairds and their wives, ordinary, and well 
pleased to bo at the marquis’s table. 

Although the waiting were as many as the waited upon, 
Malcolm, who was keen-eyed, and had a passion for service — a 
thing unintelligible to the common mind, — soon spied an oppor- 
tunity of making himself useful. Seeing one of the men, suddenly 
called away, set down a dish of fruit just as the countess was ex- 
pecting it, he jumped up, almost involuntarily, and handed it to 
her. Once in the current of things, Malcolm would not readily 
make for the shore of inactivity : he finished the round of the 
table with the dish, while the men looked indignant, and the 
marquis eyed him queerly. 

While he was thus engaged, however, Duncan, either that his 
poor stock of patience was now utterly exhausted, or that he 
fancied a signal given, compressed of a sudden his full-blown 
waiting bag, and blasted forth such a wild howl of the pibroch, that 
more than one of the ladies gave a cry and half started from 
their chairs. The marquis burst out laughing, but gave orders to 
stop him — a thing not to be effected in a moment, for Duncan 
was in full tornado, with the avenues of hearing, both corporeal 
and mental, blocked by his own darling utterance. Understand- 
ing at length, he ceased with the air and almost the carriage of 
a suddenly checked horse, looking half startled, half angry, his 
cheeks puffed, his nostrils expanded, his head thrown back, the 
port-vent still in his mouth, the blown bag under his arm, and 
his fingers on the chanter, — on the fret to dash forward again 
with redoubled energy. But slowly the strained muscles relaxed, 
he let the tube fall from his lips, and the bag descended to his 
lap. “ A man forbid,’’ he heard the ladies rise and leave the 
room, and not until the gentlemen sat down again to their wine, 
was there any demand for the exercise of his art. 

Now whether what followed had been pre-arranged, and old 
Duncan invited for the express purpose of carrying it out, or 
whether it was conceived and executed on the spur of the 
moment, which seems less likely, I cannot tell, but the turn 
things now took would be hard to believe, were they dated in the 
present generation. Some of my elder readers, however, will, 
from their own knowledge of similar actions, grant likelihood 
enough to my record. 

While the old man was piping as bravely as his lingering 
mortification would permit, the marquis interrupted his music to 
make him drink a large glass of sherry ; after which he requested 


DUNCAN'S PIPES. 


109 


him to play his loudest, that the gentlemen might hear what his 
pipes could do. At the same time he sent Malcolm with a 
message to the butler about some particular wine he wanted. 
Malcolm went more than willingly, but lost a good deal of time 
from not knowing his way through the house. When he returned 
he found things frightfully changed. 

As soon as he was out of the room, and while the poor old 
man was blowing his hardest, in the fancy of rejoicing his hearers 
with the glorious music of the highland hills, one of the company 
— it was never known which, for each merrily accused the other 
— took a penknife, and going softly behind him, ran the sharp 
blade into the bag, and made a great slit, so that the wind at once 
rushed out, and the tune ceased without sob or wail. Not a laugh 
betrayed the cause of the catastrophe : in silent enjoyment the 
conspirators sat watching his movements. For one moment 
Duncan was so astounded that he could not think ; the next he 
laid the instrument across his knees, and began feeling for the 
cause of the sudden collapse. Tears had gathered in the eyes 
that were of no use but to weep withal, and were slowly dropping. 

“ She wass afrait, my lort and chentlemans,” he said, with a 
quavering voice, “ tat her pag will pe near her latter end ; put 
she pelieved she would pe living peyond her nainsel, my chentle- 
mans.” 

He ceased abruptly, for his fingers had found the wound, and 
were prosecuting an inquiry : they ran along the smooth edges 
of the cut, and detected treachery. He gave a cry like that of a 
wounded animal, flung his pipes from him, and sprang to his feet, 
but forgetting a step below him, staggered forward a few paces and 
fell heavily. That instant Malcolm entered the room. He hurried 
in consternation to his assistance. When he had helped him up 
and seated him again on the steps, the old man laid his head on 
his boy’s bosom, threw his arms around his neck, and wept 
aloud. 

“ Malcolm, my son,” he sobbed, “ Tuncan is wronged in ta 
halls of ta strancher ; tey ’ll haf stapped his pest friend to ta 
heart, and och hone ! och hone ! she’ll pe aall too plint to take 
fencheance. Malcolm, son of heroes, traw ta claymore of ta pard, 
and fall upon ta traitors. She’ll pe singing you ta onset, for ta 
pibroch is no more.” 

His quavering voice rose that instant in a fierce though feeble 
chant, and his hand flew to the hilt of his weapon. 

Malcolm, perceiving from the looks of the men that things 
were as his grandfather had divined, spoke indignantly : 

« Ye oucht to tak shame to ca’ yersel’s gentlefowk, an’ play a 


no 


MALCOLM , ; 


puir blin* man, wha was doin' his best to please ye, sic an ill- 
faured trick. ” 

As he spoke they made various signs to him not to interfere, 
but Malcolm paid them no heed, and turned to his grandfather, 
eager to persuade him to go home. They had no intention of 
letting him off yet, however. Acquainted — probably through his 
gamekeeper, who laid himself out to amuse his master — with the 
piper’s peculiar antipathies, Lord Lossie now took up the game. 

“It was too bad of you, Campbell,” he said, “to play the good 
old man such a dog’s trick.” 

“ At the word Campbell, the piper shook off his grandson, and 
sprang once more to his feet, his head thrown back, and every 
inch of his body trembling with rage. 

“She might haf known,” he screamed, half-choking, “that a 
cursed tog of a Cawmill was in it ! ” 

He stood for a moment, swaying in every direction, as if the 
spirit within him doubted whether to cast his old body on the 
earth in contempt of its helplessness, or to fling it headlong on 
his foes. For that one moment silence filled the room. 

“ You needn’t attempt to deny it ; it really was too bad of you, 
Glenlyori,” said the marquis. . 

A howl of fury burst from Duncan’s labouring bosom. His 
broadsword flashed from its sheath, and brokenly panting out the 
words : “ Clenlyon ! Ta creat dufil ! Haf I peen trinking with 
ta hellhount, Clenlyon ? ” — he would have run a Malay muck 
through the room with his huge weapon. But he was already 
struggling in the arms of his grandson, who succeeded at length m 
forcing from his bony grasp the hilt of the terrible claymore. But 
as Duncan yielded his weapon, Malcolm lost his hold on him. 
He darted away, caught his dirk — a blade of unusual length — 
from its sheath, and shot in the direction of the last word he had 
heard. Malcolm dropped the sword and sprung after him. 

“ Gif her ta flllain by ta troat,” screamed the old man. “ She 
Ml stap his pag ! She’ll cut his chanter in two! She’ll pe toing 
it ! Who put ta creat cranson of Inverriggen should pe cutting ta 
troat of ta tog Clenlyon ! ” 

As he spoke, he was running wildly about the room, brandish- 
ing his weapon, knocking over chairs, and sweeping bottles and 
dishes from the table. The clatter was tremendous : and the 
smile had faded from the faces of the men who had provoked the 
disturbance. The . military youth looked scared : the Hanoverian 
pig-cheeks were the colour of lead ; the long lean man was laugh- 
ing like a skeleton : one of the lairds had got on the sideboard, 
and the other was making for the door with the bell-rope in his 


DUNCAN'S PIPES . 


hi 


hand ; the marquis, though he retained his coolness, was yet 
looking a little anxious ; the butler was peeping in at the door, 
with red nose and pale cheek-bones, the handle in his hand, in 
instant readiness to pop out again ; while Malcolm was after his 
grandfather, intent upon closing with him. The old man had 
just made a desperate stab at nothing half across the table, and 
was about to repeat it, when, spying danger to a fine dish, Mal- 
colm reached forward to save it. But the dish flew in splinters, 
and the dirk passing through the thick of Malcolm’s hand, pinned 
it to the table, where Duncan, fancying he had at length stabbed 
Glenlyon, left it quivering. 

“Tere, Clenlyon !” he said, and stood trembling in the ebb of 
passion, and murmuring to himself something in Gaelic. 

Meantime Malcolm had drawn the dirk from the table, and 
released his hand. The blood was streaming from it, and the 
marquis took his own handkerchief to bind it up ; but the lad 
indignantly refused the attention, and kept holding the wound 
tight with his left hand. The butler, seeing Duncan stand quite 
still, ventured, with scared countenance, to approach the scene 
of destruction. 

“ Dinna gang near him,” cried Malcolm. “ He has his skene 
dhu yet, an’ in grips that’s warst ava.” 

Scarcely were the words out of his mouth when the black knife 
was out of Duncan’s stocking, and brandished aloft in his shak- 
ing fist. 

“ Daddy ! ” cried Malcolm, “ ye wadna kill twa Glenlyons in 
ae day — wad ye?” 

‘‘She would, my son Malcolm! — fifty of ta poars in one 
preath ! Tey are ta children of wrath, and tey haf to pe tes- 
tructiont.” 

“ For an auld man ye hae killed enew for ae nicht,” said Mal- 
colm, and gently took the knife from his trembling hand. “ Ye 
maun come hame the noo.” 

“ Is ta tog tead then?” asked Duncan eagerly. 

“ Ow, na ; he’s breathin’ yet,” answered Malcolm. 

“ She’ll not can co till ta tog will pe tead. Ta tog may want 
more killing.” 

“ What a horrible savage ! ” said one of the lairds, a justice of 
the peace. “ He ought to be shut up in a madhouse.” 

“ Gien ye set aboot shuttin’ up, sir, or my lord— I kenna whilk 
. — ye’ll hae to begin nearer hame,” said Malcolm, as he stooped 
to pick up the broadsword, and so complete his possession of 
the weapons. “ An’ ve’ll please to haud in min’, that dane here 
is an injured man but my gran’father himsel’,” 


1 12 


MALCOLM . 


“ Hey ! * said the marquis ; “ what do you make of all my 

dishes?” 

“ 'Deed, my lord, ye may comfort yersel’ that they wama 
dishes wi harns ( brains ) i’ them ; for sic ’s some scarce i’ the 
Hoose o’ Lossie.” 

“ You're a long-tongued rascal,” said the marquis. 

“ A lang tongue may whiles be as canny as a lang spune, my 
lord ; an’ ye ken what that’s for?” 

The marquis burst into laughter. 

“ What do you make then of that horrible cut in your own 
hand ? ” asked the magistrate. 

“ I mak my ain business o’ ’t,” answered Malcolm. 

While this colloquy passed, Duncan had been feeling about for 
his pipes: having found them he clasped them to his bosom like 
a hurt child. 

“ Come home, come home,” he said ; “ your own pard has re- 
fenched you.” 

Malcolm took him by the arm and led him away. He went 
without a word, still clasping his wounded bagpipes to his bosom. 

“ You’ll hear from me in the morning, my lad,” said the mar- 
quis in a kindly tone, as they were leaving the room. 

“ I hae no wuss to hear onything mair o’ yer lordship. Ye hae 
done eneuch this nicht, my lord, to mak ye ashamed o’ yersel* 
till yer dyin’ day — gien ye hed ony pooer o’ shame left in ye.” 

The military youth muttered something about insolence, and 
made a step towards him. Malcolm quitted his grandfather, and 
stepped again into his room. 

“ Come on,” he said. 

“ No, no,” interposed the marquis. “ Don’t you see the lad is 
hurt ? ” 

“ Lat him come on,” said Malcolm ; “ I hae ae soon’ han’. 
Here, my lord, tak the wapons, or the auld man ’ll get a grip o’ 
them again.” 

“ I tell you no ,” shouted Lord Lossie. “ Fred, get out — will 
you ! ” 

The young gentleman turned on his heel, and Malcolm led his 
grandfather from the house without further molestation. It was 
all he could do, however, to get him home. The old man’s 
strength was utterly gone. His knees bent trembling under him, 
and the arm which rested on his grandson’s shook as with an 
ague-fit. Malcolm was glad indeed when at length he had him 
safe in bed, by which time his hand had swollen to a great size, 
and the suffering grown severe. 

Thoroughly exhausted by his late fierce emotions, Duncan 


DUNCAN'S PIPES. 


JI 3 


soon fell into a troubled sleep, whereupon Malcolm went to Meg 
Partan, and begged her to watch beside him until he should re- 
turn, informing her of the way his grandfather had been treated, 
and adding that he had gone into such a rage, that he feared he 
he would be ill in consequence ; and if he should be unable to 
do his morning’s duty, it would almost break his heart 

“ Eh ! ” said the Partaness, in a whisper, as they parted at 
Duncan’s door, “ a baad temper ’s a frichtsome thing. I’m sure 
the times I hae telled him it wad be the ruin o’ ’im ! ” 

To Malcolm’s gentle knock Miss Horn’s door was opened by 
Jean. 

“ What d’ye wint at sic an oontimeous hoor,” she said, “ whan 
honest fowk’s a’ i’ their nicht-caips ? ” 

“ I want to see Miss Horn, gien ye please,” he answered. 

“ I s’ warran’ she’ll be in her bed an’ snorin’,” said Jean ; “ but 
I s’ gang an’ see.” 

Ere she went, however, Jean saw that the kitchen door was 
closed, for, whether she belonged to the class “honest folk” or 
not, Mrs Caunach was in Miss Horn’s kitchen, and not in her 
nightcap. 

Jean returned presently with an invitation for Malcolm to walk 
up to the parlour. 

“I hae gotten a sma’ mishanter, Miss Horn,” he said, as he 
entered : “ an I thocht I cudna du better than come to you, 
’cause ye can haud yer tongue, an’ that’s mair nor mony ane i* 
the port o’ Portlossie can, mem.” 

The compliment, correct in fact as well as honest in intent, 
was not thrown away on Miss Horn, to whom it was the more 
pleasing that she could regard it as a just tribute. Malcolm told 
her ail the story, rousing thereby a mighty indignation in her 
bosom, a great fire in her hawk-nose, and a succession of 
wild flashes in her hawk-eyes ; but when he showed her his 
hand, 

“Lord, Malcolm!” she cried; “it’s a mercy I was made 
wantin’ feelin’s, or I cudna hae bed the sicht. My puir bairn 1” 

Then she rushed to the stair and shouted, — 

“Jean, ye limmer ! J ean ! Fess some het watter, an’ some linen 
cloots.” 

“ I hae nane o’ naither,” replied Jean from the bottom of the 
stair. 

“ Mak up the fire an’ put on some watter direckly. — I s’ fin’ 
some clooties,” she added, turning to Malcolm, “ — gien I sud rive 
the tail frae my best Sunday sark.” 

She returned with rags enough for a small hospital, and until 

H 


MALCOLM, 


1 14 

the grumbling Jean brought the hot water, they sat and talked in 
the glimmering light of one long-beaked tallow candle. 

“ It’s a terrible hoose, yon o’ Lossie,” said Miss Horn ; “ and 
there’s been terrible things dune intill’t. The auld markis was 
an ill man. I daurna say what he wadna hae dune, gien half 
the tales be true ’at they tell o’ ’im ; an’ the last ane was little 
better. This ane winna be sae ill, but it’s clear ’at he’s tarred wi.' 
the same stick.” 

“ I dinna think he means onything muckle amiss,” agreed 
Malcolm, whose wrath had by this time subsided a little, through 
the quieting influences of Miss Horn’s sympathy. “ He’s mair 
thouchtless, I do believe, than ill-contrived — an’ a’ for ’s fun. 
He spak unco kin-like to me, efterhin, but I cudna accep’ it, ye 
see, efter the w’y he had saired my daddy. But wadna ye hae 
thoucht he was auld eneuch to ken better by this time?” 

“ An auld fule ’s the warst fule ava’,” said Miss Horn. “ But 
naething o’ that kin’, be ’t as mad an’ pranksome as ever sic ploy 
could be, is to be made mention o’ aside the things ’at was mutit 
(muttered) o’ ’s brither. 1 budena come ower them till a young 
laad like yersel’. They war never said straucht oot, min’ ye, but 
jist mintit at, like, wi’ a doon-draw o’ the broos, an’ a wee side 
shak o’ the heid, as gien the body wad say, ‘ I cud tell ye gien I 
daur.’ But I doobt mysel’ gien onything was kent , though muckle 
was mair nor suspeckit An’ whaur there ’s reik, there maun be 
fire.” 

As she spoke she was doing her best, with many expressions 
of pity, for his hand. When she had bathed and bound it up, 
and laid it in a sling, he wished her good-night. 

Arrived at home he found, to his dismay, that things had not 
been going well. Indeed, while yet several houses off, he had 
heard the voices of the Partan’s wife and his grandfather in fierce 
dispute. The old man was beside himself with anxiety about 
Malcolm ; and the woman, instead of soothing him, was opposing 
everything he said, and irritating him frightfully. The moment 
he entered, each opened a torrent of accusations against the 
other, and it was with difficulty that Malcolm prevailed on the 
woman to go home. The presence of his boy soon calmed the 
old man, however, and he fell into a troubled sleep — in which 
Malcolm, who sat by his bed all night, heard him, at intervals, 
now lamenting over the murdered of Glenco, now exulting in a 
stab that had reached the heart of Glenlyon, and now bewailing 
his ruined bagpipes. At length towards morning he grew quieter, 
and Malcolm fell asleep in his chair. 


ADVANCES. 


115 


CHAPTER X3L 

ADVANCES, 

When he woke, Duncan still slept, and Malcolm having got 
ready seme tea for his grandfather’s, and a little brose for his own 
breakfast, sat down again by the bedside, and awaited the old 
man’s waking. 

The first sign of it that reached him was the feebly-jittered 
question, — 

“Will ta tog be tead, Malcolm?” 

u As sure ’s ye stabbit him,” answered Malcolm. 

“ Then she ’ll pe getting herself ready,” said Duncan, making 
a motion to rise. 

“ What for, daddy ?” 

“ For ta hanging, my son,” answered Duncan coolly. 

“ Time eneuch for that, daddy, whan they sen’ to tell ye,” 
returned Malcolm, cautious of revealing the facts of the case. 

“ Ferry coot!” said Duncan, and fell asleep again. 

In a little while he woke with a start. 

“ She Tl be hafing an efil tream, my son Malcolm,” he said ; 
“ or it was ’ll pe more than a tream. Cawmill of Clenlyon, Cod 
curse him ! came to tier pedside ; and he’ll say to her, — ‘ Mac- 
Dhonuil!,’ he said, for pein’ a tead man he would pe knowing my 
name, — ‘ MacDhonuill/ he said, ‘ what tid you’ll pe meaning py 
turking my posterity ?’ And she answered and said to him, ‘ I 
pray it had peen yourself, you tamned Clenlyon.’ And he said 
to me, ‘ It ’ll pe no coot wishing tat ; it would be toing you no 
coot to turk me, for I’m a tead man.’ — ‘ And a tamned man/ 
says herself, and would haf‘ taken him py ta troat, put she 
couldn’t mofe. ‘ Well, I’m not so sure of tat,’ says he, * for I ’fe 
pecked all teir partons.’ — ‘ And tid tey gif tern to you, you tog?’ 
says herself. — ‘Well, I’m not sure,’ says he; ‘anyhow, I’m not 
tamned fery much yet.’ — ‘ She’ll pe much sorey to hear it,’ says 
herself. And she took care aalways to pe calling him some paad 
name, so tat he shouldn’t say she ’ll be forgifing him, whatever ta 
rest of tern might be toing. ‘ Put what troubles me,’ says he, ‘ it 
’ll not pe apout myself at aall.’ — ‘ Tat ’ll pe a wonter,’ says her 
nain sel’ : ‘ and what may it pe apout, you cut-troat?’ — ‘ It ’ll pe 
apout yourself/ says he. ‘ Apout herself?’ — ‘ Yes ; apout your- 
self/ says he. ‘ I’m sorry for you — for ta ting tat’s to pe tone 
with him tat killed a mar aal pecaase he pore my name, and he 


ii6 


MALCOLM. 


wasn’t a son of mine at aall ! Tere is no pot in hell teep enough 
to put him in !’ — ‘ Ten tey must make haste and tig one/ says 
herself, ‘ for she ’ll pe hangt in a tay or two.’ — So she ’ll wake up, 
and beholt it was a tream ! ” 

“ An’ no sic an ill dream efter a’, daddy !” said Malcolm. 

“ Not an efil tream, my son, when it makes her aaimost wish 
that she hadn’t peen quite killing ta tog ! Last night sue would 
haf made a puoy of his skin like any other tog’s skin, and to tay 
— no, my son, it w’ass a fery efil tream. And to be tok tat ta 
creat tefil, Clenlyon herself, was not fery much tamned ! — it wass 
a fery efil tream, my son.’’ 

“ Weel, daddy — maybe ye ’ll tak it for ill news, but ye killed 

naebody.” 

“Tid she’ll not trive her turk into ta tog?” cried Duncan 
fiercely. “ Och hone ! och hone ! — Then she ’s ashamed of 
herself for efer, when she might have tone it. And it ’ll hafe to 
be tone yet !” 

He paused a few moments, and then resumed : 

“ And she’ll not pe coing to be hangt ? — Maype tat will pe 
petter, for you wouldn’t hafe liket to see your olt cranfather to 
pe hangt, Malcolm, my son. Not tat she would hafe minted it 
herself in such a coot caause, Malcolm ! Put she tidn’t pe fei ' 
happy after she tid think she had tone it, for you see he wasn’t 
ta fery man his ownself, and tat must pe counted. But she tid 
kill something : what was it, Malcolm? ” 

“Ye sent a gran’ dish fleein’,” answered Malcolm. “1 s* 
warran’ it cost a poun’, to jeedge by the gowd upo’ ’t.” 

“ She’ll hear a noise of preaking ; put she tid stap something 
soft.” 

“Ye stack yer durk intill my lord’s mahogany table,” said 
Malcolm. “ It nott ( needed ) a guid rug (pull) to haul’t oot.” 

“ Then her arm has not lost aal its strength, Malcolm ! I pray 
ta taple had peen ta rips of Clenlyon ! ” 

“Ye maunna pray nae sic prayers, daddy. Min’ upo’ what 
Glenlyon said to ye last nicht Gien I was you I wadna hae a 
pot howkit express for mysel’ — doon yonner — i’ yon place 'at ye 
dreamed aboot.” 

“Well, I’ll forgife him a little, Malcolm— not ta one tat’s tead, 
but ta one tat tidn’t do it, you know. — Put how will she pe for- 
gifing him for ripping her poor pag ? Och hone ! och hone ! 
No more musics for her tying tays, Malcolm ! Och hone ! och 
hone ! I shall co creeping to ta crafe with no loud noises to defy 
ta enemy. Her pipes is tumb for efer and efer. Och hone 1 
och hone ! ” 


ADVANCES. 


:?7 

The lengthening of his days had restored bitterness to his loss. 

“ I’ll sune set the bag richt, daddy. Or, gien I canns da that, 
we’ll get a new ane. Mony a pibroch ’ll come skirlin’ o’ that 
chanter yet er’ a’ be dune.” 

They were interrupted by the unceremonious entrance of the 
same footman who had brought the invitation. He carried a 
magnificent set of ebony pipes, with silver mountings. 

“ A present from my lord, the marquis,” he said bumptiously, 
almost rudely, and laid them on the table. 

“ Dinna lay them there ; tak them frae that, or I’ll fling them 
at yer poothered wig,” said Malcolm. “ — It’s a stan’ o’ pipes,” 
he added, “ an’ that a gran’ ane, daddy.” 

“ Take tern away ! ” cried the old man, in a voice too feeble to 
support the load of indignation it bore. “She’ll pe taking no 
presents from marquis or take tat would pe teceifing old Tuncan, 
and making him trink with ta cursed Clenlyon. Tell ta marquis 
he ’ll pe sending her cray hairs with sorrow to ta crafe ; for she 
’ll pe tishonoured for efer and henceforth.” 

Probably pleased to be the bearer of a message fraught with 
so much amusement, the man departed in silence with the pipes. 

The marquis, although the joke had threatened, and indeed 
so far taken a serious turn, had yet been thoroughly satisfied 
with its success. The rage of the old man had been to his eyes 
ludicrous in the extreme, and the anger of the young one so 
manly as to be even picturesque. He had even made a resolve, 
half-dreamy and of altogether improbable execution, to do some- 
thing for the fisher fellow. 

The pipes which he had sent as a solatium to Duncan, were a 
set that belonged to the house — ancient, and in the eyes of either 
connoisseur or antiquarian, exceedingly valuable ; but the marquis 
was neither the one nor the other, and did not in the least mind 
parT g with them. As little did he doubt a propitiation through 
theii means, was utterly unprepared for a refusal of his gift, and 
was nearly as much perplexed as annoyed thereat. 

For one thing, he could not understand such offence taken by 
one in Duncan’s lowly position ; for although he had plenty of 
highland blood in his own veins, he had never lived in the High- 
lands, and understood nothing of the habits or feelings of the 
Gael. What was noble in him, however, did feel somewhat re- 
buked, and he was even a little sorry at having raised a barrier 
between himself and the manly young fisherman, to whom he 
had taken a sort of liking from the first. 

Of the ladies in the drawing-room, to whom he had recounted 
the vastly amusing joke with ail the graphic delineation for 


MALCOLM. 


iiS 

which he had been admired at court, none, although they all 
laughed, hxd appeared to enjoy the rad recital thoroughly, 
except the bold-faced countess. Lady Ftarimel regarded the 
affair as undignified at the best, was sorry loir the old man, who 
must be mad, she thought, and was pleased only with the praises 
of her squire of low degree. The wound in his hand the marquis 
either thought too trifling to mention, or serious enough to have 
clouded the clear sky of frolic under which he desired the whole 
transaction to be viewed. 

They- were seated at their late breakfast when the lackey 
passed the window on his return from his unsuccessful mission, 
and the marquis happened to see him, carrying the rejected 
pipes. He sent for him, and heard his report, then with a quick 
nod dismissed him — his way when angry, and sat silent 

“Wasn’t it spirited — in such poor people too?” said Lady 
Florimel, the colour rising in her face, and her eyes sparkling. 

“ It was damned impudent,” said the marquis. 

“ I think it was damned dignified,” said Lady Florimel. 

The marquis stared. The visitors, after a momentary silence, 
burst into a great laugh. 

“I wanted to see,” said Lady Florimel calmly, “whether/ 
couldn’t swear if I tried. I don’t think it tastes nice. I shan’t 
take to it, I think.” 

“ You’d better not in my presence, my lady,” said the marquis, 
his eyes sparkling with fun. 

“ I shall certainly not do it out of your presence, my lord,” 
she returned. “—Now I think of it,” she went on, “I know 
what I will do : every time you say a bad word in my presence, 
I shall say it after you. I shan’t mind who’s there — parson or 
magistrate. Now you’ll see.” 

“You will get into the habit of it.” 

“ Except you get out of the habit of it first, papa,” said the 
girl, laughing merrily. 

“ You confounded little Amazon ! ” said her father. 

“ But what’s to be done about those confounded pipes ? ” she 
resumed. “ You can’t allow such people to serve you so ! 
Return your presents, indeed !— Suppose I undertake the 
business ? ” 

“ By all means. What will you do ? ” 

“ Make them take them, of course. It would be quite horrible 
never to be quits with the old lunatic.” 

“ As you please, puss.” 

“ Then you put yourself in my hands, papa?” 

“ Yes ; only you must mind what you’re about, you know/ 


MEDIATION. 


ug 

n That I will, and make them mind to V* she answered, and 
the subject was dropped. 

. Lad y Florimel counted upon her influence with Malcolm, and 
his again with his grandfather ; but careful of her dignity, she 
would, not make direct advances ; she would wait an opportunity 
of speaking to him. But, although she visited the sand-hill 
almost every morning, an opportunity was not afforded her. 
Meanwhile, the state of Duncan’s bag and of Malcolm’s hand 
forbidding, neither pipes were played nor gun was fired to arouse 
marquis or burgess. When a fortnight had thus passed, Lady 
Florimel grew anxious concerning the justification of her boast, 
and the more so that her father seemed to avoid all reference 
to it 


CHAPTER XXI. 

MEDIATION. 

At length it was clear to Lady Florimel that if her father had not 
forgotten her undertaking, but was, as she believed, expecting 
from her some able stroke of diplomacy, it was high time that 
something should be done to save her credit. Nor did she 
forget that the unpiped silence of the royal burgh was the 
memento of a practical joke of her father, so cruel that a piper 
would not accept the handsome propitiation offered on its account 
by a marquis. 

On a lovely evening, therefore, the sunlight lying slant on 
waters that heaved and sunk in a flowing tide, now catching the 
gold on lifted crests, now losing it in purple hollows, Lady Florimel 
found herself, for the first time, walking from the lower gate 
towards the Seaton. Rounding the west end of the village, she 
came to the sea front, where, encountering a group of children, 
she requested to be shown the blind pipei’s cottage. Ten of 
them started at once to lead the way, and she was presently 
knocking at the half-open door, through which she could not 
help seeing the two at their supper of dry oat cake and still 
drier skim-milk cheese, with a jug of cold water to wash it down. 
Neither, having just left the gentlemen at their wine, could she 
help feeling the contrast between the dinner just over at the 
House and the meal she now beheld. 


120 


MALCOLM . 


At the sound of her knock, Malcolm, who was seated with 
his back to the door, rose to answer the appeal ; — the moment 
he her, the blood rose from his heart to his cheek in similar 
response. He opened the door wide, and in low, something 
tremulous tones, invited her to enter ; then caught up a chair, 
dusted it with his bonnet, and placed it for her by the window, 
where a red ray of the setting sun feli on a huge- flowered 
hydrangea. Her quick eye caught sight of his bound-up hand. 

“ How have you hurt your hand ? ” she asked kindly. 

Malcolm made signs that prayed for silence, and pointed to 
his grandfather, * But it was too late. 

“ Hurt your hand, Malcolm, my son,” cried Duncan, with sur- 
prise and anxiety mingled. “ How will you pe toing tat ? ” 

“ Here’s a bonny yoong leddy come to see ye, daddy,” said 
Malcolm, seeking to turn the question aside. 

“ She’ll pe fery clad to see ta ponny young laty, and she’s 
creatly obleeched for ta honour : put if ta ponny young laty 
will pe excusing her — what’ll pe hurting your hand, Malcolm 1 ” 

“ I’ll tell ye efterhin, daddy. This is my Leddy Florimel, frae 
the Hoose.” 

“ Hm ! ” said Duncan, the pain of his insult keenly renewed 
by the mere mention of the scene of it. “ Put,” he went on, 
continuing aloud the reflections of a moment of silence. “ she’ll 
p.' *. laty, and it’s not to pe laid to her charch. Sit town, my 
my. Ta poor place is your own.” 

But Lady Florimel was already seated, and busy in her mind 
as to how she could best enter on the object of her visit. The 
piper sat silent, revolving a painful suspicion with regard to 
Malcolm’s hurt. 

“ So you won’t forgive my father, Mr MacPhail i ” said Lady 
Florimel. 

“ She would forgife any man put two men,” he answered, “ — 
Clenlyon, and ta man, whoefer he might pe, who would put upon 
her ta tiscrace of trinking in his company.” 

“ But you’re quite mistaken,” said Lady Florimel, in a pleading 
tone. “ I don’t believe my father knows the gentleman you 
speak of.” 

“ Chentleman ! ” echoed Duncan. “ He is a tog ! — No, he is 
no to? : togs is coot. He is a mongrel of a fox and a volf ! ” 

“ There was no Campbell at our table that evening,” persisted 
Lady Florimel. 

“ Ten who tolt Tuncan MacPhail a lie 1 ” 

“ It was nothing but a joke — indeed i” said the girl, beginning 
to feel humiliated. 


MEDIATION. 


I2\ 


u It wass a paad choke, and might have peen ta hanging of 
poor Tuncan,” said the piper. 

Now Lady Florimel had heard a rumour of some one having 
been hurt in the affair of the joke, and her quick wits instantly 
brought that and Malcolm’s hand together. 

“ It might have been,” she said, risking a miss for the advan- 
tage. “It was well that you hurt nobody but your own 
grandson.” 

“ Oh, my leddy ! ” cried Malcolm with despairing remonstrance ; 
“ — an’ me haudin’ ’t frae him a’ this time! Ye sud ha’ con- 
si dert an auld man’s feelin’s ! He’s as blin’ ’s a mole, my 
leddy ! ” 

“ His feelings ! ” retorted the girl angrily. “ He ought to know 
the mischief he does in his foolish rages.” 

Duncan had risen, and was now feeling his way across the 
room. Having reached his grandson, he laid hold of his head 
and pressed it to his bosom. 

“ Malcolm ! ” he said, in a broken and hollow voice, not to be 
recognized as his, “ Malcolm, my eagle of the crag ! my hart of 
the heather ! was it yourself she stapped with her efil hand, my 
son? Tid she’ll pe hurting her own poy? — She’ll nefer wear turk 
more. Och hone ! Och hone ! ” 

He turned, and, with bowed head seeking his chair, seated him- 
self and wept. 

Lady Florimel’s anger vanished. She was by his side in a 
moment, with her lovely young hand on the bony expanse of his, 
as it covered his face. On the other side, Malcolm laid his lips 
to his ear, and whispered with soothing expostulation, — 

“ It’s maist as weel ’s ever daddy. It’s nane the waur. It 
was but a bit o’ a scart. It’s nae worth twise thinkin’ o’. ” 

“ Ta turk went trough it, Malcolm ! It went into ta table ! 
She knows now ! O Malcolm ! Malcolm ! would to Cod she 
had killed herself pefore she hurted her nov ! ” 

He made Malcolm sit down beside him, and taking the 
wounded hand in both of his, sunk into a deep silence, utterly 
forgetful of the presence of Lady Florimel, who retired to her 
chair, kept silence also, and waited. 

“ It was not a coot choke,” he murmured at length, " upon an 
honest man, and might pe calling herself a chentleman. A rache 
is not a choke. To put her in a rache was not coot. See to it. 
And it was a ferry paad choke, too, to make a pig hole in her 
poor pag ! Och hone ! och hone ! — Put I’m clad Clenlyon was 
not there, for she was too plind to kill him.” 

“ But you will surely forgive my father, when he wants to make 


122 


MALCOLM , ; 


it up ! Those pipes have been in the family for hundreds of 
years,” said Florimel. 

“ Her own pipes has peen in her own family for five or six 
chenerations at least,” said Duncan. “ — And she was wonder- 
ing why her poy tidn’t pe mending her pag 1 My poor poy ! 
Och hone ! Och hone ! 

“ We’ll get a new bag, daddy,” said Malcolm. “ It’s been lang 
past men’in’ wi’ auld age.” 

“ And then you will be able to play together,” urged Lady 
Florimel. 

Duncan’s resolution was visibly shaken by the suggestion. He 
pondered for a while. At last he opened his mouth solemnly, 
and said, with the air of one who had found a way out of a 
hitherto impassable jungle of difficulty : 

“ If her lord marquis will come to Tuncan’s house, and say to 
Tuncan it was put a choke and he is sorry for it, then Tuncan 
will shake hands with ta marquis, and take ta pipes. * 

A smile of pleasure lighted up Malcolm’s face at the proud 
proposal. Lady Florimel smiled also, but with amusement. 

“ Will my laty take Tuncan’s message to my lord, ta marquis ?* 
asked the old man. 

Now Lady Florimel had inherited her father’s joy in teasing; 
and the thought of carrying him such an overture was irresistibly 
delightful. 

“ I will take it,” she said. “ But what if he should be angry? 51 

“ If her lord pe angry, Tuncan is angry too,” answered the 
piper. 

Malcolm followed Lady Florimel to the door. 

“ Put it as saft as ye can, my leddy,” he whispered. “ I canna 
bide to anger fowk mair than maun be.” 

“ I shall give the message precisely as your grandfather gave 
it to me,” said Florimel, and walked away. 

While they sat at dinner the next evening, she told her father, 
from the head of the table, all about her visit to the piper, and 
ended with the announcement of the condition — word for word — 
on which the old man would consent to a reconciliation. 

Could such a proposal have come from an equal whom he had 
insulted, the marquis would hardly have waited for a challenge : 
to have done a wrong was nothing ; to confess it would be dis- 
grace. But here the offended party was of such ludicrously low 
condition, and the proposal therefore so ridiculous, that it struck 
the marquis merely as a yet more amusing prolongation of the 
joke. Hence his reception of it was with uproarious laughter, in 
which all his visitors joined. 


MEDIATION. 


123 


“Damn tine old wind-bag !” said the marquis. 

“ Damn the knife that made the mischief,” said Lady Florimel. 

When the merriment had somewhat subsided, Lord Meikle- 
ham, the youth of soldierly aspect, would have proposed whip- 
ping the highland beggar, he said, were it not for the probability 
the old clothes-horse would fall to pieces; whereupon Lady 
Florimel recommended him to try it on the young fisherman, 
who might possibly hold together ; whereat the young lord looked 
both mortified and spiteful. 

I believe some compunction, perhaps even admiration, mingled 
itself, in this case, with Lord Lossie’s relish of an odd and amus- 
ing situation, and that he was inclined to compliance with the 
conditions of atonement, partly for the sake of mollifying the 
wounded spirit of the highlander. He turned to his daughter 
and said, — 

“ Did you fix an hour, Flory, for you* poo: father to make 

amende honorable ? ” 

“No, papa ; I did not go so far as that/ 

The marquis kept a few moments’ grave silence. 

“Your lordship is surely not meditating such a solecism !” 
said Mr Morrison, the justice-laird. 

“ Indeed I am,” said the marquis. 

“It would be too great a condescension,” said Mr Cavins ; 
“and your lordship will permit me to doubt the wisdom of it. 
These fishermen form a class by themselves ; they are a rough 
set of men, and only too ready to despise authority. You will 
not only injure the prestige of your rank, my lord, but expose 
yourself to endless imposition.” 

“ The spirit moves me, and we are commanded not to quench 
the spirit,” rejoined the marquis with a merry laugh, little thinking 
that he was actually describing what was going on in him — that 
the spirit of good concerning which he jested, was indeed not 
only working in him, but gaining on him, in his resolution of 
that moment 

“Come, Flory,” said the marquis, to whom it gave a distinct 
pleasure to fly in the face of advice, “ we’ll go at once, and havo 
it over.” 

So they set out together for the Seaton, followed by the bag- 
pipes, carried by the same servant as before, and were received 
by the overjoyed Malcolm, and ushered into his grandfather’s 
presence. 

Whatever may have been the projected attitude of the marquis, 
the moment he stood on the piper’s floor, th egenerosus, that is the 
gentleman, in him, got the upper hand, and his behaviour to the 


124 


MALCOLM. 


old man was not polite merely, but respectful. At no period in 
the last twenty years had he been so nigh the kingdom of heaven 
as he was now when making his peace with the blind piper. 

When Duncan heard his voice, he rose with dignity and made 
a stride or two towards the door, stretching forth his long arm to 
its full length, and spreading wide his great hand with the brown 
palm upwards : 

“Her nainsel will pe proud to see my lord ta marquis under 
her roof,” he said. 

The visit itself had already sufficed to banish all resentment 
from his soul. 

The marquis took the proffered hand kindly : 

“ I have come to apologise,” he said. 

“Not one vord more, my lort, I peg,” interrupted Duncan. 
u My lort is come, out of his cootness, to pring her a creat kift , 
for he’ll pe hearing of ta sad accident which pefell her poor pipes 
one efening lately. Tey was ferry old, my lort, and easily hurt.” 

“I am sorry — •” said the marquis — but again Duncan inter- 
rupted him. 

“ I am clad, my lort,” he said, “for it prings me ta creat choy. 
If my lady and your lordship will honour her poor house py sit- 
ting town, she will haf ta pleasure of pe offering tern a little 
music.” 

His hospitality would give them of the best he had ; but ere 
the entertainment was over, the marquis judged himself more than 
fairly punished by the pipes for all the wrong he had done the 
piper. 

They sat down, and, at a sign from his lordship, the servant 
placed his charge in Duncan’s hands, and retired. The piper 
received the instrument with a proud gesture of gratification, felt 
it all over, screwed at this and that for a moment, then filled the 
great bag gloriously full. The next instant a scream invaded the 
astonished air fit to rival the skirl produced by the towzie tyke of 
Kirk-Alloway ; another instant, and the piper was on his legs, as 
full of pleasure and pride as his bag of wind, strutting up and down 
the narrow chamber like a turkey-cock before his hens, and 
turning ever, after precisely so many strides, with a grand gesture 
and mighty sweep, as if he too had a glorious tail to mind, and 
was bound to keep it ceaselessly quivering to the tremor of the 
reed in the throat of his chanter. 

Malcolm, erect behind their visitors, gazed with admiring eyes 
at every motion of his grandfather. To one who had from earliest 
infancy looked up to him with reverence, there was nothing 
ridiculous in the display, in the strut, in ail that to other eyes too 


WHENCE AND WHETHER. 


12 $ 


evidently revealed the vanity of the piper : Malcolm regarded it 
all only as making up the orthodox mode of playing the pipes. 
It was indeed well that he could not see the expression upon the 
faces of those behind whose chairs he stood, while for moments 
that must have seemed minutes, they succumbed to the wild uproar 
which issued from those splendid pipes. On an opposite hill-side, 
with a valley between, it would have sounded poetic; in a charging 
regiment, none could have wished for more inspiriting battle- 
strains ; even in a great hall, inspiring and guiding the merry reel, 
it might have been in place and welcome ; but in a room of ten 
feet by twelve, with a wooden ceiling, acting like a drum-head, at 
the height of seven feet and a half ! — It was little below torture 
to the marquis and Lady Florimel. Simultaneously they rose to 
make their escape. 

“ My lord an’ my leddy maun be gauin’, daddy,” cried Malcolm. 

Absorbed in the sound which his lungs created and his fingers 
modulated, the piper had forgotten all about his visitors ; but the 
moment his grandson’s voice reached him, the tumult ceased ; he 
took the port- vent from his lips, and with sightless eyes turned 
full on Lord Lossie, said in a low earnest voice, — 

“ My lort, she ’ll pe ta craandest staand o’ pipes she efer blew, 
and proud and thankful she’ll pe to her lort marquis, and to ta Lort 
of lorts, fur ta kift. Ta pipes shall co town from cheneration to 
cheneration to ta ent of time ; yes, my lort, until ta loud cry of 
tern pe trownt in ta roar of ta trump of ta creat archanchel, when 
he’ll pe setting one foot on ta laand and ta other foot upon ta sea, 
and CJenlyon shall pe cast into ta lake of fire.” 

He ended with a low bow. They shook hands with him, 
thanked him for his music, wished him good-night, and, with a 
kind nod to Malcolm, left the cottage. 

Duncan resumed his playing the moment they were out of the 
house, and Malcolm, satisfied of his well-being for a couple of 
hours at least — he had been music-starved do long, went also out, 
in quest of a little solitude. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

WHENCE AND WHITHER? 

He wandered along' the shore on the land side of the mound, 
with a favourite old book of Scotish ballads in his hand, every 


r26 


MALCOLM. 


now and then stooping to gather a sea-anemone — a white flowe# 
something like a wild geranium, with a faint sweet smell, or a 
small, short-stalked harebell, or a red daisy, as large as a small 
primrose ; for along the coast there, on cliff or in sand, on rock 
or in field, the daises are remarkable for size, and often not merely 
tipped, but dyed throughout with a deep red. 

He had gathered a bunch of the finest, and had thrown himself 
down on the side of the dune, whence, as he lay, only the high 
road, the park wall, the temple of the winds, and the blue sky 
were visible. The vast sea, for all the eye could tell, was no- 
where — not a ripple of it was to be seen, but the ear was filled 
with the night gush and flow of it. A sweet wind was blowing, 
hardly blowing, rather gliding, like a slumbering river, from the 
west. The sun had vanished, leaving a ruin of gold and rose 
behind him, gradually fading into dull orange and lead and blue 
sky and stars. There was light enough to read by, but he never 
opened his book. He was thinking over something Mr Graham 
had said to him a few days before, namely, that all impatience of 
monotony, all weariness of best things even, are but signs of the 
eternity of our nature — the broken human fashions of the divine 
everlastingness. 

***** 

“ I dinna ken whaur it comes frae,” said a voice above him. 

He looked up. On the ridge of the mound, the whole of his 
dwarfed form relieved against the sky and looking large in the 
twilight, stood the mad laird, reaching out his forehead towards 
the west with his arms expanded as if to meet the ever coming 
wind. 

“ Naebody kens whaur the win comes frae, oi whaur it gangs 
till,” said Malcolm. “ Ye’re no a hair waur aff nor ither fowk, 
there, laird.” 

“ Does’t come frae a guid place, or frae an ili r ' said the 
laird, donbtingly. 

“ It ; s salt an’ kin’ly i* the fin’ o’ ’t,” returned Malcolm sugges- 
tively, rising and joining the laird on the top of tne dune, ami 
like him spreading himself out to the western air. 

The twilight had deepened, merging into such night as the 
summer in that region knows — a sweet pale memory of the past 
day. The sky was full of sparkles of pale gold in a fathomless 
blue ; there was no moon ; the darker sea lay quiet below, with 
only a murmur about its lip, and fitfully reflected the stars. The 
soft wind kept softly blowing. Behind them shone a light at the 
harbour’s mouth, and a twinkling was here and there visible in 
the town above ; but all was as still as if there were no life save in 


WHENCE AND WHIT HER f 


127 


the wind and the sea and the stars. The whole feeling was as if 
something had been finished in heaven, and the outmost ripples of 
the following rest had overflowed and were now pulsing faintly 
and dreamily across the bosom of the labouring earth, with feeblest 
suggestion of the mighty peace beyond. Alas, words can do so 
little ! even such a night is infinite. 

“ Ay,” answered the laird ; “ but it maks me dowfart ( melan- 
choly ) like, i’ the inside.” 

“ Some o’ the best things does that,” said Malcolm. “ I think 
a kiss frae my mithcr wad gar me greet.” 

He knew the laird’s peculiarities well ; but in the thought of his 
mother had forgotten the antipathy of his companion to the word. 
Stewart gave a moaning cry, put his fingers in his ears, and glided 
down the slope of the dune seawards. 

Malcolm was greatly distressed. He had a regard for the laird 
far beyond pity, and could not bear the thought of having inad- 
vertently caused him pain. But he dared not follow him, for that 
would be but to heighten the anguish of the tortured mind and 
the suffering of the sickly frame ; for, when pursued, he would 
accomplish a short distance at an incredible speed, then drop 
suddenly and lie like one dead. Malcolm, therefore, threw off 
his heavy boots, and starting at full speed along the other side of 
the dune, made for the bored craig; his object being to outrun 
the laird without being seen by him, and so, doubling the rock, 
return with leisurely steps, and meet him. Sweetly the west wind 
whistled about his head as he ran. In a few moments he had 
rounded the rock, towards which the laird was still running, but 
now more slowly. The tide was high and came near its foot, 
leaving but a few yards of passage between, in which space they 
approached each other, Malcolm with sauntering step as if stroll- 
ing homewards. Lifting his bonnet, a token of respect he never 
omitted when he met the mad laird, he stood aside in the narrow 
way. Mr Stewart stopped abruptly, took his fingers from his ears, 
and stared in perplexity. 

“ It’s a richt bonny nicht, laird,” said Malcolm. 

The poor fellow looked hurriedly behind him, then stared again, 
then made gestures backward, and next pointed at Malcolm with 
rapid pokes of his forefinger. Bewilderment had brought on 
the impediment in his speech, and all Malcolm could distinguish 
in the babbling efforts at utterance which followed, were the 
words, — “Twa o’ them! Twa o’ them! Twa o’ them!” often and 
hurriedly repeated. 

“ It’s a fine, saft-sleekit win/ laird,” said Malcolm, as if they 
were meeting for the first time that night. “ I think it maun 


128 


MALCOLM . 


come frae the blue there, ayont the stars. There’s a heap 
wonnerfu’ things there, they tell me ; an’ whiles a strokin win’ 
an* whiles a rosy smell, an’ whiles a bricht licht, an’ whiles, they 
say, an auld yearnin’ sang, ’ill brak oot, an’ wanner awa doon, an* 
gang flittin’ an’ fleein’ amang the sair herts o’ the men an’ women 
fowk ’at canna get things putten richt.” 

“ I think there are two fools of them ! ” said the marquis, 
referring to the words of the laird. 

He was seated with Lady Florimel on the townside of the rock, 
hidden from them by one sharp corner. They had seen the mad 
laird coming, and had recognised Malcolm’s voice. 

“ I dinna ken whaur I come frae,” burst from the laird, the 
word whaur drawn out and emphasized almost to a howl ; and 
as he spoke he moved on again, but gently now, towards the 
rocks of the Scaurnose. Anxious to get him thoroughly soothed 
before they parted, Malcolm accompanied him. They walked a 
little way side by side in silence, the laird every now and then 
heaving his head like a fretted horse towards the sky, as if he 
sought to shake the heavy burden from his back, straighten out 
his poor twisted spine, and stand erect like his companion. 

“ Ay ! ” Malcolm began again, as if he had in the meantime 
been thinking over the question, and was now assured upon it, 
“ the win 1 maun come frae yont the stars ; for dinna ye min’, 
laird — ? Ye was at the kirk last Sunday — wasna ye? ” 

The laird nodded an affirmative, and Malcolm went on. 

“ An’ didna ye hear the minister read frae the buik ’at hoo ilka 
guid an ilka perfit gift was frae abune, an’ cam frae the Father 
o’ lichts?” 

“ Father o’ lichts ! ” repeated the laird, and looked up at the 
stars. “ I dinna ken whaur I cam frae. I hae nae father. I 
hae only a ... I hae only a wuman.” 

The moment he had said the word, he began to move his 
head from side to side like a scared animal seeking where to 
conceal itself. 

“ The Father o’ lichts is your father an’ mine — The Father o’ 
a’ o’ ’s,” said Malcolm. 

“ O’ a’ guid fowk, I daursay,” said the laird, with a deep and 
quivering sigh. 

“ Mr Graham says — o’ a’body,” returned Malcom, “ guid an* 
ill ; — o’ the guid to haud them guid an’ mak them better — o’ the 
ill to mak them guid.” 

“ Eh ! gien that war true ! ” said the laird. 

They walked on in silence for a minute. All at once the laird 
threw up his hands, and fell flat on his face on the sand, his poor 


WHENCE AND WHITHER t 


129 


numn rising skywards above his head. Malcolm thought he had 
been seized with one of the fits to which he was subject, and 
knelt down beside him, to see if he could do anything for him. 
Then he found he was praying : he heard him — he could but just 
hear him — murmuring over and over, all but inaudibly, “Father 
o’ lichts ! Father o’ lichts ! Father o' lichts ! ” It seemed as if no 
other word dared mingle itself with that cry. Maniac or not — 
the mood of the man was supremely sane, and altogether too 
sacred to disturb. Malcolm retreated a little way, sat down in 
the sand and watched beside him. It was a solemn time — the 
full tide lapping up on the long yellow sand from the wide sea 
darkening out to the dim horizon : the gentle wind blowing 
through the molten darkness ; overhead, the great vault without 
arch or keystone, of dim liquid blue, and sown with worlds so 
far removed they could only shine ; and, on the shore, the centre 
of all the cosmic order, a misshapen heap of man, a tumulus in 
which lay buried a live and lovely soul ! The one pillar of its 
chapter house had given way, and the downrushing ruin had so 
crushed and distorted it, that thenceforth until some resurrection 
should arrive, disorder and misshape must appear to it the law of 
the universe, and loveliness but the passing dream of a brain 
glad to deceive its own misery, and so to fancy it had received 
from above what it had itself generated of its own poverty 
from below. To the mind’s eye of Malcolm, the little hump 
on the sand was heaved to the stars, higher than ever Roman 
tomb or Egyptian pyramid, in silent appeal to the sweet heavens, 
a dumb prayer for pity, a visible groan for the resurrection of the 
body. For a few minutes he sat as still as the prostrate laird. 

But bethinking himself that his grandfather would not go to bed 
until he went back, also that the laird was in no danger, as the 
tide was now receding, he resolved to go and get the old man to 
bed, and then return. For somehow he felt in his heart that he 
ought not to leave him alone. He could not enter into his strife 
to aid him, or come near him in any closer way than watching by 
his side until his morning dawned, or at least the waters of his 
flood assuaged, yet what he could he must : he would wake with 
him in his conflict. 

He rose and ran for the bored craig, through which lay the 
straight line to his abandoned boots. 

As he approached the rock, he heard the voices of Lord Lossie 
and Lady Florimel, who, although the one had not yet verified 
her being, the other had almost ruined his, were nevertheless en- 
joying the same thing, the sweetness of the night, together. Not 
hearing Malcolm’s approach, they went on talking, and as he 


130 


MALCOLM. 


was passing swiftly through tbs bore, he heard these words from 
the marquis, — 

“ The world’s an ill-baked cake, Flory, and all that a— woman, 
at least, can do, is to cut a»* large a piece of it as possible, for 
immediate use.” 

The remark being a general one, Malcolm cannot be much 
blamed if he stood with one foot lifted to hear Floriznel’s reply. . 

“ If it ’s an ill-baked one, papa,” she returned, “ I think it 
would be better to cut as small a piece of it as will serve for 
immediate use.” 

Malcolm was delighted with her answer, never thinking whether 
it came from her head or her heart, for the two were at one in 
himself. 

As soon as he appeared on the other side of the rock, the 
marquis challenged him : 

“ Who goes there ?” he said. 

“ Malcolm MacPhail, my lord.” 

“You rascal!” said his lordship, good-humouredly; il you’ve 
been listening !” 

“ No muckle, my lord. I heard but a word a-piece. An’ I 
maun say my leddy had the best o’ the loagic.” 

“ My lady generally has, I suspect,” laughed the marquis. 
“ How long have you been in the rock there?” 

“No ae meenute, my lord. I fiang aff my butes to rin efter a 
freen’, an’ that's hoo ye didna hear me come up. I’m gaein’ 
efter them noo, to gang hame i’ them. Guid nicht, my lord. Guid 
nicht, my leddy.” 

He turned and pursued his way ; but Florimel’s face, glimmer- 
ing through the night, went with him as he ran. 

He told his grandfather how he had left the mad laird lying 
on his face, on the sands between the bored craig and the 
rocks of the promontory, and said he w'ould like to go back to 
him. 

“ He’ll be hafmg a fit, poor man,” said Duncan. “ Yes, my 
son, you must co to him and to your pest for him. After such 
an honour as we ’fe had this day, we mustn’t pe forgetting our 
poor neighpours. Will you pe taking to him a trop of uisge- 
beatha?” 

“ He taks naething o’ that kin’,” said Malcolm. 

He could not tel: him that the madman, as men called him, 
lay wrestling in prayer with the Father of lights. The old high- 
lander was not irreverent, but the thing would have been unin- 
telligible to him. He could readily have believed that the 
supposed lunatic might be favoured beyond ordinary mortals; 


ARMAGEDDON. 


* 3 * 

that at that very moment, lost in his fit, he might be rapt in a 
vision of the future — a wave of time, far off as yet from the souls 
of other men, even now rolling over his ; but that a soul should 
seek after vital content by contact with its maker, was an ide*. 
belonging to a region which, in the highlander’s being, lay as yet 
an unwatered desert, an undiscovered land, whence even no 
faintest odour had been wafted across the still air of surprised 
contemplation. 

About the time when Malcolm once more sped through the 
bored craig, the marquis and Lady Florimel were walking through 
the tunnel on their way home, chatting about a great ball they 
were going *0 give the tenants. 

He found the laird where he had left him, and thought at first 
he must now surely be asleep ; but once more bending over him, 
he could hear him still murmuring at intervals, “ Father o’ lichts 1 
Father o’ lichts !” 

Not less compassionate, and more sympathetic than Eliphaz 
or Bildad or Zophar, Malcolm again took his place near him, 
and sat watching by him until the gray dawn began in the east. 
Then all at once the laird rose to his feet, and without a look on 
either side walked steadily away towards the promontory. Mal- 
colm rose also, and gazed after him until he vanished amongst 
the rocks, no motion of his distorted frame witnessing other 
than calmness of spirit. So his watcher returned in peace 
through the cool morning air to the side of his slumbering 
grandfather. 

No one in the Seaton of Portlossie ever dreamed of locking 
door or window at night. 


CHAPTER XXI I L 

ARMAGEDDON. 

The home season of the herring-fishery was to commence a few 
days after the occurrences last recorded. The boats had all 
returned from other stations, and the little harbour was one 
crowd of stumpy masts, each with its halliard, the sole cordage 
visible, rove through the top of it, for the hoisting of a lug sail, 
tanned to a rich red brown. From this underwood towered 
aloft the masts of a coasting schooner, discharging its load of 
coal at the little quay. Other boats lay drawn up on the beach 
in front of the Seaton, and beyond it on the other side of the 


; MALCOLM . 


* 3 * 

bum. Men and women were busy with the brown nets, laying 
them out on the short grass of the shore, mending them with 
netting-needles like small shuttles, carrying huge burdens of 
them on their shoulders in the hot sunlight ; others were mend- 
ing, calking, or tarring their boats, and looking to their various 
fittings. All was preparation for the new venture in their own 
waters, and everything went merrily and hopefully. Wives who 
had not accompanied their husbands now had them home again, 
and their anxieties would henceforth endure but for a night — joy 
would come with the red sails in the morning , lovers were once 
more together, the one great dread broken into a hundred little 
questioning fears ; mothers had their sons again, to watch with 
loving eyes as they swung their slow limbs at their labour, or in 
the evenings sauntered about, hands in pockets, pipe in mouth, 
and blue bonnet cast carelessly on the head : it was almost a 
single family, bound together by a network of intermarriages, so 
intricate as to render it impossible for any one who did not 
belong to the community to follow the threads or read the design 
of the social tracery. 

And while the Seaton swarmed with u the goings on of life,” 
the town of Portlossie lay above it still as a country hamlet, with 
more odours than people about : of peoole it was seldom indeed 
that three were to be spied at once in the wide street, while 
of odours you would always encounter a smell of leather from 
the saddler’s shop, and a mingled message of bacon and cheese 
from the very general dealer’s — in whose window hung what 
seemed three hams, and only he who looked twice would dis- 
cover that the middle object was no ham, but a violin — while 
at every corner lurked a scent of gillyflowers and southernwood. 
Idly supreme, Portlossie the upper looked down in conde- 
scension, that is in half-concealed contempt, on the ant-heap 
below it. 

The evening arrived on which the greater part of the boats 
was to put oft' for the first assay. Malcolm would have m^de 
one in the little fleet, foY he belonged to his friend Joseph Mair’s 
crew, had it not been found impossible to get the new boat ready 
before the following evening ; whence, for this one more, ho 
was still his own master, with one more chance of a pleasure for 
which he had been on the watch ever since Lady Florimel had 
spoken of having a row in his boat. True, it was not often she 
appeared on the shore in the evening; nevertheless he kept 
watching the dune with his keen eyes, for he had hinted to Mrs 
Courthope that perhaps her young lady would like to see the 
boats go out. 


ARMAGEDDON . 


133 


Although it was the fiftieth time his eyes had swept the links 
in vague hope, he could hardly believe their testimony when now 
at length he spied a form, which could only be hers, looking sea- 
ward from the slope, as still as a sphinx on Egyptian sands. 

He sauntered slowly towards her by the landward side of the 
dune, gathering on his way a handful of the reddest daisies he 
could find ; then, ascending the sand-hill, approached her along 
the top. 

“Saw ye ever sic gowans in yer life, my teddy?” he said, 
holding out his posy. 

“ Is that what you call them?” she returned. 

“ Ow ay, my teddy — daisies ye ca’ them. I dinna ken but 
yours is the bonnier name o’ the twa — gien it be what Mr Graham 
tells me the auld poet Chaucer maks o’ ’t.” 

“What is that?” 

“ Ow, jist the een o' the day — the day's eyes , ye ken. They’re 
sma’ een for sic a great face, but syne there’s a lot o’ them to mak 
up for that. They’ve begun to close a’ready, but the mair they 
close the bonnier they luik, wi’ their bits o’ screwed-up mooies 
( little mouths). But saw ye ever sic reid anes, or ony sic a size, 
my leddy ?” 

“ I don’t think I ever did. What is the reason they are so 
large and red ? ” 

“ I dinna ken. There canna be muckle nourishment in sic a 
thin soil, but there maun be something that agrees wi’ them . It’s 
the same a’ roon’ aboot here.” 

Lady Florimel sat looking at the daisies, and Malcolm stood a 
few yards off, watching for the first of the red sails, which must 
soon show themselves, creeping out on the ebb tide. Nor had 
he waited long before a boat appeared, then another and another 
— six huge oars, ponderous to toil withal, urging each from the 
shelter of the harbour out into the wide weltering plain. The 
fishing-boat of that time was not decked as now, and each, with 
every lift of its bows, revealed to their eyes a gaping hollow, 
ready, if a towering billow should break above it, to be filled 
with sudden death. One by one the whole fleet crept out, and 
ever as they gained the breeze, up went the red sails, and filled : 
aside leaned every boat from the wind, and went dancing away 
over the frolicking billows towards the sunset, its sails, deep-dyed 
in oak-bark, shining redder and redder in the growing redness of 
the sinking sun. 

Nor did Portlossie alone send out her boats, like huge sea-birds 
warring on the live treasures of the deep; from beyond the 
headlands east and west, out they glided on slow red wing, — ■ 


*34 


MALCOLM. 


from Scaumose, from Sandend, from Clamrock, from the villages 
all along the coast, — spreading as they came, each to its work 
apart through all the laborious night, to rejoin its fellows only as 
home drew them back in the clear gray morning, laden and slow 
with the harvest of the stars. But the night lay between, into 
which they were sailing over waters of heaving green that for ever 
kept tossing up roses — a night whose curtain was a horizon built 
up of steady blue, but gorgeous with passing purple and crimson, 
and flashing with molten gold. 

Malcolm was not one of those to whom the sea is but a pond 
for fish, and the sky a storehouse of wind and rain, sunshine and 
snow: he stood for a moment gazing, lost in pleasure. Then he 
turned to Lady Florimel : she had thrown her daisies on the sand, 
appeared to be deep in her book, and certainly caught nothing of 
the splendour before her beyond the red light on her page. 

“ Saw ye ever a bonnier sicht, my leddy 'l ” said Malcolm. 

She look ;d up, and saw, and gazed in silence. Her nature 
was full of poetic possibilities ; and now a formless thought fore- 
shadowed itself in a feeling she did not understand : why should 
such a sight as this make her feel sad ? The vital connection 
between joy and effort had begun from afar to reveal itself with 
the question she now uttered. 

“ What is it all for 1 ” she asked dreamily, her eyes gazing out 
on the cahn ecstasy of colour, which seemed to have broken the 
bonds of law, and ushered in a new chaos, fit matrix of new 
heavens and new earth. 

“To catch herrin’,” answered Malcolm, ignorant of the mood 
that prompted the question, and hence mistaking its purport. 

But a falling doubt had troubled the waters of her soul, and 
through the ripple she could descry it settling into form. She 
was silent for a moment. 

“ I want to know,” she resumed, “ why it looks as if some 
great thing were going on. Why is all this pomp and show 1 
Something ought to be at hand. All I see is the catching of a 
few miserable fish ! If it were the eve of a glorious battle now, 
I could understand it — if those were the little English boats 
rushing to attack the Spanish Armada, for instance. But they 
are only gone to catch fish. Or if they were setting out to dis- 
cover the Isles of the West, the country beyond the sunset ! — 
but this jars.” 

“ I canna answer ye a’ at ance, my leddy,” said Malcolm ; “ I 
maun tak time to think aboot it But I ken brawly what ye 
mean.” 

Even as he spoke he withdrew, and, descending the mound. 


ARMAGEDDON. 


135 


walked away beyond the bored craig, regardless now of the far- 
lessening sails and the sinking sun. The motes of the twilight 
were multiplying fast as he returned along the shore side of the 
dune, but Lady Florimel had vanished from its crest He ran 
to the top : thence, in the dim of the twilight, he saw her slow 
retreating form, phantom-like, almost at the grated door of the 
tunnel, which, like that of a tomb, appeared ready to draw her 
in, and yield her no more. 

“ My leddy, my teddy,” he cried, “ winna ye bide for ’t ?” 

He went bounding after her like a deer. She heard him call, 
and stood holding the door half open. 

“It’s the battle o’ Armageddon, my teddy,” he cried, as he 
came within hearing distance. 

“ The battle of what % ” she exclaimed, bewildered. “ I really 
can’t understand your savage Scotch.” 

“ Hoot, my teddy 1 the battle o’ Armageddon ’s no ane o’ the 
Scots battles ; it’s the battle atween the richt and the wrang, ’at 
ye read aboot i’ the buik o’ the Revelations.” 

“ What on earth are you talking about ? ” returned Lady 
Florimel in dismay, beginning to fear that her saui r e was losing 
his senses. 

“ It’s jist what ye was sayin,’ my teddy: sic a pomp as yon 
bude to hing abune a gran’ battle some gait or ither.” 

“What has the catching of fish to do with a battle in the 
Revelations ]” said the girl moving a little within the door. 

“ Weel, my teddy, gien I took in han’ to set it furth to ye, I 
wad hae to tell ye a’ that Mr Graham has been teamin’ me sin’ 
ever I can min.’ He says 'at the whole economy o’ natur is 
fashiont unco like that o’ the kingdom o’ haven : its jist a grada- 
tion o’ services, an’ the highest en’ o’ ony animal is to contreebute 
to the life o’ ane higher than itsei’ ; sae that it’s the gran’ preevi- 
lege o’ the fish we tak, to be aten by human bein’s, an’ uphaud 
what’s abune them.” 

“ That’s a poor consolation to the fish,” said Lady Florimel. 

“ Hoo ken ye that, my leddy] Ye can tell nearhan’ as little 
aboot the hert o’ a herrin’ — sic as it has — as the herrin’ can tell 
aboot yer ain, whilk, I’m thinkin’, maun be o’ the lairgest size.” 

“ How should you know anything about my heart, pray ? ” she 
asked, with more amusement than offence. 

“Jist by my ain,” answered Malcolm. 

Lady Florimel began to fear she must have allowed the fisher 
lad more liberty than was proper, seeing he dared avow that he 
Knew the heart of a lady of her position by his own. But indeed 
Malcolm was wrong, for in the scale of hearts, Lady Florimel’s 


MALCOLM. 


136 

was tar below his. She stepped quite within the door, and was 
on the point of shutting it, but something about the youth 
restrained her, exciting at least her curiosity; his eyes glowed 
with a deep, quiet light, and his face, even grand at the moment, 
had a greater influence upon her than she knew. Instead therefore 
of interposing the door between them, she only kept it poised, 
ready to fall-to the moment the sanity of the youth should become 
a hair’s-breadth more doubtful than she already considered it. 

“ It’s 2! pairt o’ ae thing, my leddy,” Malcolm resumed. “ The 
herrin ’s like the fowk 'at cairries the mate an’ the pooder an' sic 
like for them 'at does the fechtin’. The hert o’ the leevin’ man's 
the place whaur the battle’s foucht, an' it’s aye gaein’ on an’ 
on there atween God an’ Sawtan ; an’ the fish they haud fowk 
up till 't ” 

“ Do you mean that the herrings help you to fight for God?” 
said Lady Florimel with a superior smile. 

“ Aither for God or for the deevil, my leddy — that depen's 
upo’ the fowk themsel’s. I say it hauds them up to fecht, an’ 
the thing maun be fouchten oot. Fowk to fecht maun live, an’ 
the herrin’ hauds the life i’ them, an’ sae the catchin’ o’ the her- 
rin’ comes in to be a pairt o’ the battle.” 

“ Wouldn’t it be more sensible to say that the battle is between 
the fishermen and the sea, for the sake of their wives and chil- 
dren ?” suggested Lady Florimel supremely. 

“ Na, my leddy, it wadna be half sae sensible, for it wadna 
justifee the grandur that hings ower the fecht. The battle wi’ 
the sea 's no sae muckle o’ an affair. An’, 'deed, gien it warna 
that the wives an’ the verra weans hae therasel’s to fecht i’ the 
same battle o’ guid an’ ill, I dinna see the muckle differ there 
wad be atween them an’ the ish, nor what for they sudna ate ane 
anither as the craturs i’ the watter du. But gien ’t be the battle I 
say, there can be no pomp o’ sea or sky ower gran’ for ’t ; an’ it’s 
a’ weel waured ( expended ) gien it but haud the gude anes merry 
an’ strong, an’ up to their wark. For that, weel may the sun 
shine a celestial rosy reid, an’ weel may the boatie row, an’ weel 
may the stars luik doon, blinkin’ an’ luikin’ again —ilk ane duin' 
its bonny pairt to mak a man a richt-hertit guid-willed sodger!” 

“ And, pray, what may be your rank in this wonderful army?” 
asked Lady Florimel, with the air and tone of one humouring a 
lunatic. 

“ I’m naething but a raw recruit, my leddy ; but gien I hed 
my chice, I wad be piper to my reg’ment” 

“ Flow do you mean ?” 

“ I wad mak sangs. Dinna laucli at me, my leddy for they’re the 


ARMAGEDDON, \ 


137 


best kin* o’ wapon for the wark ’at I ken. But I’m no a makar 
( poet ), an* maun content mysel’ wi’ duin’ my wark.” 

“ Then why,” said Lady Florimel, with the conscious right of 
social superiority to administer good counsel, — “why don’t 
you work harder, and get a better house, and wear better 
clothes ? ” 

Malcolm’s mind was so full of far other and weightier things 
that the question bewildered him ; but he grappled with the 
reference to his clothes. 

“ ’Deed, my leddy,” he returned, “ ye may weel say that, seein’ 
ye was never aboord a herrin’ boat ! but gien ye ance saw the 
inside o’ ane fu’ o’ fish, whaur a body gangs slidderin’ aboot, 
maybe up to the middle o’ ’s leg in wamlin’ herrin,’ an’ the neist 
meenute, maybe, weet to the skin wi’ the splash o’ a muckle jaw 
(wave), ye micht think the claes guid eneuch for the wark — 
though ill fit, I confess wi’ shame, to come afore yer leddyship.” 

“ I thought you only fished about close by the shore in a little 
boat ; I didn’t know you went with the rest of the fishermen : 
that’s very dangerous work — isn’t it?” 

“No ower dangerous my leddy. There’s some gangs doon 
ilka sizzon ; but it’s a’ i’ the w’y o’ yer wark.” 

“ Then how is it you’re not gone fishing to-night ? ” 

“ She’s a new boat, an’ there’s anither day’s wark on her afore 
we win oot. — Wadna ye like a row the nicht, my leddy ?” 

“ No, certainly ; it’s much too late.” 

“ It ’ll be nane mirker nor ’tis ; but I reckon ye’re richt. I 
cam ower by jist to see whether ye wadna like to gang wi’ the 
boats a bit ; but yer leddyship set me aff thinkin’ an’ that pat it 
oot o’ my heid.” 

“ It’s too late now anyhow. Come to-morrow evening, and 
I’ll see if I can’t go with you.” 

“ I canna, my leddy— that’s the fash o”t ! I maun gang wi’ 
Blue Peter the mom’s nicht. It was my last chance, I’m sorry 
to say.” 

“ it’s not of the slightest consequence,” Lady Florimel re- 
turned ; and, bidding him goodnight, she shut and locked the 
door. 

The same instant she vanished, for the tunnel was now quite 
dark. Malcolm turned with a sigh, and took his way slowly 
homeward along the top of the dune. All was dim about him— 
dim in the heavens, where a thin veil of gray had gathered over 
the blue ; dim on the ocean, where the stars swayed and swung, 
in faint flashes of dissolving radiance, cast loose like ribbons of 
sea-weed : dim all along the shore, where the white of the break- 


MALCOLM. 


138 

ing wavelet melted into the yellow sand ; and dim in his own 
heart, where the manner and words of the lady had half hidden 
her starry reflex with a chilling mist. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE FEAST. 

To the entertainment which the marquis and Lady Florimel had 
resolved to give, all classes and conditions in the neighbourhood 
now began to receive invitations — shopkeepers, there called mer- 
chants, and all socially above them, individually, by notes, in the 
name of the marquis and Lady Florimel, but in the handwriting 
of Mrs Crathie and her daughters ; and the rest generally, by the 
sound of bagpipes, and proclamation from the lips of Duncan 
MacPhail. To the satisfaction of Johnny Bykes the exclusion of 
improper persons was left in the hands of the gatekeepers. 

The thing had originated with the factor. The old popularity 
of the lords of the land had vanished utterly during the life of 
the marquis’s brother, and Mr Crathie, being wise in his genera- 
tion, sought to initiate a revival of it by hinting the propriety of 
some general hospitality, a suggestion which the marquis was 
anything but loath to follow. For the present Lord Lossie, 
although as unready as most men to part with anything he cared 
for, could yet cast away magnificently, and had always greatly 
prized a reputation for liberality. 

For the sake of the fishermen, the first Saturday after the com- 
mencement of the home-fishing was appointed. The few serious 
ones, mostly Methodists, objected on the ground of the proximity 
of the Sunday; but their attitude was, if possible, of still less 
consequence in the eyes of their neighbours that it was well 
known they would in no case have accepted such an invitation. 

The day dawned propitious. As early as five o’clock Mr 
Crathie was abroad, booted and spurred — now directing the 
workmen who were setting up tents and tables ; now conferring 
with house-steward, butler, or cook; now mounting his horse 
and galloping off to the home-farm or the distillery, or into the 
town to the Lossie Arms, where certain guests from a distance 
were to be accommodated, and whose landlady had undertaken 
the superintendence of certain of the victualling departments ; 
for canny Mr Crathie would not willingly have the meanest guest 
ask twice for anything he wanted — so invaluable did he consider 


THE FEAST. 


139 


a good word from the humblest quarter — and the best labours 
of the French cook, even had he reverenced instead of despising 
Scotch dishes, would have ill-sufficed for the satisfaction of appe- 
tites critically appreciative of hotch-potch, sheep’s head, haeuis. 
and black puddings. 66 ’ 

# The neighbouring nobility and landed gentlemen, the profes- 
sional guests also, including the clergy, were to eat with the mar- 
quis in the great hall. On the grass near the house, tents were 
erected for the burgesses of the burgh, and the tenants of the 
marquis’s farms. I would have said on the lawn , but there was 
no lawn proper ribout the place, the ground was so picturesquely 
broken— in parts with all but precipices — and so crowded with 
trees. Hence its aspect was specially unlike that of an English 
park and grounds The whole was Celtic , as distinguished in 
character from Saxon. For the lake-like lawn, for the wide 
sweeps of airy room in which expand the mighty boughs of soli- 
tary trees, for the filmy gray-blue distances, and the far-off seg 
ments of horizon, here were the tree-crowded grass, the close 
windings of the long glen of the burn, heavily overshadowed, and 
full of mystery and covert, but leading at last to the widest van- 
tage of outlook — the wild heathery hill down which it drew its 
sharp furrow ; while, in front of the house, beyond hidden river, 
and plane of tree-tops, and far-sunk shore with its dune and its 
bored crag and its tortuous caves, lay the great sea, a pouting 
under-lip, met by the thin, reposeful — shall I say sorrowful ? — 
upper-lip of the sky. 

A bridge of stately span, level with the sweep in front, honour- 
able embodiment of the savings of a certain notable countess, 
one end resting on the same rock with the house, their founda- 
tions almost in contact, led across the burn to more and more 
trees, their roots swathed in the finest grass, through which ran 
broad carriage drives and narrower footways, hard and smooth 
with yellow gravel. Here amongst the trees were set long tables 
for the fishermen, mechanics, and farm-labourers. Here also was 
the place appointed for the piper. 

As the hour drew near, the guests came trooping in at every 
entrance. By the sea-gate came the fisher-folk, many of the men 
in the blue jersey, the women mostly in short print gowns, of 
large patterns — the married with huge, wide-frilled caps, and the 
unmarried with their hair gathered in silken nets : — bonnets there 
were very few. Each group that entered had a joke or a jibe for 
Johnny Bykes, which he met in varying, but always surly fashion 
— in that of utter silence in the case of Duncan and Malcolm, at 
which the former was indignant, the latter merry. By the town- 


140 


MALCOLM. 


gate came the people of Portlossie. By the new main entrance 
from the high road beyond the town, through lofty Greekish 
gates, came the lords and lairds, in yellow coaches, gigs, and 
post-chaises. By another gate, far up the glen, came most of the 
country-folk, some walking, some riding, some driving, all merry ; 
and with the best intentions of enjoying themselves. As the 
common people approached the house, they were directed to 
their different tables by the sexton, for he knew everybody. 

The marquis was early on the ground, going about amongst his 
guests, and showing a friendly off-hand courtesy which prejudiced 
every one in his favour. Lady Florimel soon joined aim, and a 
certain frank way she inherited from her father, joined to the 
great beauty her mother had given her, straightway won all 
hearts. She spoke to Duncan with cordiality ; the moment he 
heard her voice, he pulled off his bonnet, put it under his arm, 
and responded with what I can find no better phrase to describe 
than — a profuse dignity. Malcolm she favoured with a smile 
which swelled his heart with pride and devotion. The bold- 
faced countess next appeared ; she took the marquis’s other arm, 
and nodded to his guests condescendingly and often, but seemed, 
after every nod, to throw her head farther back than before. 
Then to haunt the goings of Lady Florimel came Lord Meikle- 
ham, receiving little encouragement, but eager after such crumbs 
as he could gather. Suddenly the great bell under the highest 
of the gilded vanes rang a loud peal, and the marquis having led 
his chief guests to the hall, as soon as he was seated, the tables 
began to be served simultaneously. 

At that where Malcolm sat with Duncan, grace was grievously 
foiled by the latter, for, unaware of what was going on, he burst 
out, at the request of a waggish neighbour, with a tremendous 
blast, of which the company took advantage to commence opera- 
tions at once, and presently the clatter of knives and forks and 
spoons was the sole sound to be heard in that division of the 
feast : across the valley, from the neighbourhood of the house, 
came now and then a faint peal of laughter, for there they knew 
how to be merry while they ate ; but here, the human element 
was in abeyance, for people who work hard, seldom talk while 
they eat. From the end of an overhanging bough a squirrel 
looked at them for one brief moment, wondering perhaps that 
they should not prefer cracking a nut in private, and vanished r 
but the birds kept singing, and the scents of the flowers came 
floating up from the garden below, and the burn went on with its 
own noises and its own silences, drifting the froth of its last 
passion down towards the doors of the world. 


THE FEAST. 


Hi 

In the hall, ancient jokes soon began to flutter their moulted 
wings, and musty compliments to offer themselves for the accept- 
ance of the v?.dies, and meet with a reception varied by tempera- 
ment and experience : what the bold-faced countess heard with 
a hybrid contortion, half sneer and half smile, would have made 
Lady Florimel stare out of big refusing eyes. 

Those more immediately around the marquis were soon laughing 
over the story of the trick he had played the blind piper, and the 
apology he had had to make in consequence ; and perhaps 
something better than mere curiosity had to do with the wish of 
several of the guests to see the old man and his grandson. The 
marquis said the piper himself would take care they should not 
miss him, but he would send for the young fellow, who was 
equally fitted to amuse them, being quite as much of a character 
in his way as the other. 

He spoke to the man behind his chair, and in a few minutes 
Malcolm made his appearance, following the messenger. 

“ Malcolm,” said the marquis kindly, “ I want you to keep your 
eyes open, and see that no mischief is done about the place.” 

“ I dinna think there’s ane o’ oor ain fowk wad dee ony mis- 
cheef, my lord,” answered Malcolm ; but whan ye keep open yett, 
ye canna be sure wha wins in, specially wi’ sic a gowk as Johnny 
Bykes at ane o’ them. No ’at he wad wrang yer lordship a hair, 
my lord ! ” 

“ At all events you’ll be on the alert,” said the marquis. 

“ I wull that, my Lord. There’s twa or three aboot a’ready ’at 
I dinna a’thegither like the leuks o’. They’re no like country- 
fowk, an’ they’re no fisher-fowk. It’s no far aff the time o’ year 
whan the gipsies are i’ the w’y o’ payin’ ’s a veesit, an’ they may 
ha’ ccme in at the Binn yett {gate), whaur there’s nane but an auld 
wife to haud them oot.” 

“ Well, well,” said the marquis, who had no fear about the 
behaviour of his guests, and had only wanted a colour for his 
request of Malcolm’s presence. “In the meantime,” he added, 
“ we are rather short-handed here. J ust give the butler a little 
assistance — will you ? ” 

“ Willin’ly, my lord,” answered Malcolm, forgetting altogether, 
in the prospect of being useful and within sight of Lady Florimel, 
that he had but half finished his own dinner. The butler, who 
had already had an opportunity of admiring his aptitude, was 
glad enough to have his help ; and after this day used to declare 
that in a single week he could make him a better servant than 
any of the men who waited at table. It was indeed remarkable 
how, with such a limited acquaintance with the many modes of 


MALCOLM. 


MS 

an artificial life, he was yet, by quickness of sympathetic insight 
capable not only of divining its requirements, but of distinguish* 
ing, amid the multitude of appliances around, those fitted to 
their individual satisfaction. 

It was desirable, however, that the sitting in the hall should 
not be prolonged, and after a few glasses of wine, the marquis 
rose, and went to make the round of the other tables. Taking 
them in order, he came last to those of the rustics, mechanics, 
and fisher-folk. These had advanced considerably in their pota- 
tions, and the fun was loud. His appearance was greeted with 
shouts, into which Duncan struck with 2 paean from his pipes ; 
but in the midst of the tumult, one of the oldest of the fishermen 
stood up, and in a voice accustomed to battle with windy uproars, 
called for silence. He then addressed their host. 

“ Ye’ll jist mak ’s prood by drinkin’ a tum’ler wi’ ’s, yer lordship/’ 
he said. “ It’s no ilka day we hae the honour o’ yer lordship’s 
company.” 

“ Or I of yours,” returned the marquis with hearty courtesy. 
“ I will do it with pleasure — or at least a glass : my head’s not 
so well seasoned as some of yours.” 

“ Gien your lordship’s hed hed as mony blasts o’ nicht win’, 
an’ as mony jaups o’ cauld sea watter aboot its lugs as oors, it 
wad hae been fit to stan’ as muckle o’ the barley bree as the 
stievest o’ the lot, I s’ warran’.” 

“ I hope so,” returned Lord Lossie, who, having taken a seat 
at the end of the table, was now mixing a tumbler of toddy. 
As soon as he had filled his glass, he rose, and drank to the 
fishermen of Portlossie, their wives and their sweathearts, wishing 
them a mighty conquest of herring, and plenty of children to 
keep up the breed and the war on the fish. His speech was 
received with hearty cheers, during which he sauntered away to 
rejoin his friends. 

Many toasts followed, one of which, “ Damnation to the dog- 
fish,” gave opportunity to a wag, seated near the piper, to play 
upon the old man’s well-known foible by adding, “ an’ Cawmill 
o’ Glenlyon whereupon Duncan, who had by this time taken 
more whisky than was good for him, rose, and made a rambling 
speech, in which he returned thanks for the imprecation, adding 
thereto the hope that never might one of the brood accursed go 
down with honour to the grave. 

The fishermen listened with respectful silence, indulging only 
in nods, winks, and smiles for the interchange of amusement, 
untii the utterance of the wish recorded, when, apparently carried 
away for a moment by his eloquence, they broke into loud 


THE FEAST. 


*43 


applause. B^t, from the midst of it, a low gurgling laugh dose 
by him reached Duncan's ear : excited though he was with strong 
drink and approbation, he shivered, sunk into his seat, and 
clutched at his pipes convulsively, as if they had been a weapon 
of defence. 

“ Malcolm ! Malcolm, my son,” he muttered feebly, “ tere is a 
voman will pe kughing 1 She is a paad voman : she makes me 
cold ! ” 

Finding from the no-response that Malcolm had left his side, 
he sat motionless, drawn into himself, and struggling to suppress 
the curdling shiver. Some of the women gathered about him, 
but he assured them it was nothing more than a passing sick- 
ness. 

Malcolm’s attention had, a few minutes before, been drawn to 
two men of somewhat peculiar appearance, who, applauding 
louder than any, only pretended to drink, and occasionally inter- 
changed glances of intelligence. It was one of these peculiar 
looks that first attracted his notice. He soon discovered that 
they had a comrade on the other side of the table, who 2 pparently, 
like themselves, had little or no acquaintance with ar.y one near 
him. He did not like either their countenances or their be- 
haviour, and resolved to watch them. In order therefore to be 
able to follow them when they moved, as he felt certain they 
would before long, without attracting their attention, he left the 
table and making a circuit took up his position behind a neigh- 
bouring tree. Hence it came that he was not, at the moment of 
his need, by his grandfather’s side, whither he had returned as 
soon as dinner was over in the hall. 

Meantime it became necessary to check the drinking by the 
counter attraction of the dance. Mr Cratbie gave orders that a 
chair should be mounted on a table for Duncan ; and the young 
hinds and fishermen were soon dancing zealously with the girls 
of their company to his strathspeys and reels. The other divisions 
of the marquis’s guests made merry to the sound of a small bra ss 
band, a harp, and two violins. 

When the rest forsook the toddy for the reel, the objects of 
Malcolm’s suspicion remained at the table, not to drink, but to 
draw nearer to each other and confer. At length, when the 
dancers began to return in quest of liquor, they rose and went 
away loiteringly through the trees. As the twilight was now 
deepening, Malcolm found it difficult to keep them in sight, but 
for the same reason he was able the more quickly to glide aftei 
them from tree tc t r ee. It was almost moonrise, he said to him* 
self, and if they meditated mischief, now was their best time. 


144 


MALCOLM. 


Presently he heard the sound of running feet, and in a moment 
more spied the unmistakeable form of the mad laird, darting 
through the thickening dusk of the trees, with gestures of wilt/ 
horror. As he passed the spot where Malcolm stood, he cried 
out in a voice like a suppressed shriek, — 

“ It’s my mither 1 It’s my mither 1 I dinna ken whaur I come 
frae.” 

His sudden appearance and outcry so startled Malcolm that 
•for a moment he forgot his watch, and when he looked again the 
men had vanished. Not having any clue to their intent, and 
knowing only that on such a night the house was nearly defence- 
less, he turned at once and made for it. As he approached the 
front, coming over the bridge, he fancied he saw a figure disap- 
pear through the entrance, and quickened his pace. J ust as he 
reached it, he heard a door bang, and supposing it to be that 
which shut off the second hall, whence rose the principal stair- 
case, he followed this vaguest of hints, and bounded to the top 
of the stair. Entering the first passage he came to, he found it 
almost dark, with a half-open door at the end, through which 
shone a gleam from some window beyond : this light was plainly 
shut off for a moment, as if by some one passing the window. 
He hurried after — noiselessly, for the floor was thickly carpeted 
— and came to the foot of a winding stone stair. Afraid beyond 
all things of doing nothing, and driven by the formless conviction 
that if he stopped to deliberate he certainly should do nothing, 
he shot up the dark screw like an ascending bubble, passed the 
landing of the second floor without observing it, and arrived in 
the attic regions of the ancient pile, under low, irregular ceilings, 
here ascending in cones, there coming down in abrupt triangles, 
or sloping away to a hidden meeting with the floor in distant 
corners. His only light was the cold blue glimmer from here 
and there a storm-window or a sky-light. As the conviction of 
failure grew on him, the ghostly feeling of the place began to 
invade him. All was vague, forsaken, and hopeless, as a dreary 
dream, with the superadded miserable sense of lonely sleep- 
walking. I suspect that the feeling we call ghostly is but the 
sense of abandonment in the lack of companion life; but be this 
as it may, Malcolm was glad enough to catch sight of a gleam as 
from a candle, "t the end of a long, low passage on which he had 
come after mazy wandering. Another similar passage crossed 
its end, somewhere in which must be the source of the light : he 
crept towards it, and laying himself flat on the floor, peeped 
round the corner. His very heart stopped to listen : seven or 
eight yards from him, with a small lantern in her hand, stood a 


THE FEAST. 


US 


short female figure, which, the light falling for a moment on her 
soft evil countenance, he recognised as Mrs Catanach. Beside 
her stood a tall graceful figure, draped in black from head to foot. 
Mrs Catanach was speaking in a low tone, and what Malcolm 
was able to catch was evidently the close of a conversation. 

“ I’ll do my best, ye may be sure, my leddy,” she said. 
“There’s something no canny aboot the cratur, an’ doobtless ye 
was an ill-used wuman, an’ ye’re i’ the richt. But it’s a some 
fearsome ventur, an’ may be luikit intill, ye ken. There I s’ be 
yer scoug. Lippen to me, an’ ye s’ no repent it.” 

As she ended speaking, she turned to the door, and drew from 
it a key, evidently after a foiled attempt to unlock it therewith ; 
for from a bunch she carried she now made choice of another, and 
was already fumbling with it in the key-hole, when Malcolm be- 
thought himself that, whatever her further intent, he ought not to 
allow her to succeed in opening the door. He therefore rose 
slowly to his feet, and stepping softly out into the passage, sent 
his round blue bonnet spinning with such a certain aim, that it 
flew right against her head. She gave a cry of terror, smothered 
by the sense of evil secrecy, and dropped her lantern. It went 
out. Malcolm pattered with his hands on the floor, and began 
to howl frightfully. Her companion had already fled, and Mrs 
Catanach picked up her lantern and followed. But her flight 
was soft- footed, and gave sign only in the sound of her garments, 
and a clank or two of her keys. 

Gifted with a good sense of relative position, Malcolm was able 
to find his way back to the hall without much difficulty, and met 
no one on the way. When he stepped into the open air a round 
moon was visible through the trees, and their shadows were lying 
across the sward. The merriment had grown louder , for a good 
deal of whisky having been drunk by men of all classes, hilarity 
had ousted restraint, and the separation of classes having broken 
a little, there were many stragglers from the higher to the lower 
divisions, whence the area of the more boisterous fun had con- 
siderably widened. Most of the ladies and gentlemen were 
dancing in the chequer of the trees and moonlight, but, a little 
removed from the rest, Lady Florimel was seated under a tree, 
with Lord Meikleham by her side, probably her partner in the 
last dance. She was looking at the moon, which shone upon her 
from between two low branches, and there was a sparkle in her 
eyes and a luminousness upon her cheek which to Malcolm did 
not seem to come from the moon only. He passed on, with the 
first pang of jealousy in his heart, feeling now for the first time 
that the space between Lady Florimel and himself was indeed a 


146 


MALCOLM. 


gulf. But he cast the whole thing from him for the time with an 
inward scorn of his foolishness, and hurried on from group to 
group, to find the marquis. 

Meeting with no trace of him, and thinking he might be in the 
flower-garden, which a few rays of the moon now reached, he 
descended thither. But he searched it through with no better 
success, and at the farthest end was on the point of turning to 
leave it and look elsewhere, when he heard a moan of stifled 
agony on the other side of a high wall which here bounded the 
garden. Climbing up an espalier, he soon reached the top, and 
looking down on the other side, to his horror and rage espied the 
mad laird on the ground, and the very men of whom he had been 
in pursuit, standing over him and brutally tormenting him, 
apparently in order to make him get up and go along with them. 
One was kicking him, another pulling his head this way and that 
by the hair, and the third punching and poking his hump, which 
iast cruelty had probably drawn from him the cry Malcolm had 
heard. 

Three might be too many for him : he descended swiftly, found 
some stones, and a stake from a bed of sweet-peas, then climbing 
up again, took such effectual aim at one of the villains that he fell 
without uttering a sound. Dropping at once from the wall, he 
rushed at the two with stick upheaved. 

“ Dinna be in sic a rage, man,” cried the first, avoiding his 
blow ; “we’re aboot naething ayont the lawfu’. It’s only the mad 
laird. We’re takin’ ’im to the asylum at Ebberdeen. By the 
order o’ ’s ain mither !” 

At the word a choking scream came from the prostrate victim. 
Malcolm uttered a huge imprecation, and struck at the fellow 
again, who now met him in a way that showed it was noise more 
than wounds he had dreaded. Instantly the other came up, and 
also fell upon him with vigour. But his stick was too much for 
them, and at length one of them, crying out — “It’s the Min’ 
piper’s bastard — I’ll mark him yet ! ” took to his heeb e and was 
followed by his companion. 

More eager after rescue than punishment, Malcolm turned to 
the help of the laird, whom he found in utmost need of his mini- 
strations — gagged, and with his hands tied mercilessly tight be- 
hind his back. His knife quickly released him, but the pool 
fellow was scarcely bss helpless than before. He clung to 
Malcolm, and moaned piteously, every moment glancing over his 
shoulder in terror of pursuit. His mouth hung open as if the 
gag were still tormenting him ; now and then he would begin hb 
usual lament and manage to say i( J dinna ken;” but when ho 


THE FEAST, 


147 


attempted the whaur , his jaw fell and hung as before. Malcolm 
sought to lead him away, but he held back, moaning dreadfully ; 
then Malcolm would have him sit down where they were, but he 
caught his hand and pulled him away, stopping instantly, however, 
as if not knowing whither to turn from the fears on every side. 
At length the prostrate enemy began to move, when the laird, 
who had been unaware of his presence, gave a shriek, and took 
to his heels. Anxious not to lose sight of him, Malcolm left the 
wounded man to take care of himself, and followed him up the 
steep side of the little valley. 

They had not gone many steps from the top of the ascent, 
however, before the fugitive threw himself on the ground 
exhausted, and it was all Malcolm could do to get him to the 
town, where, unable to go a pace further, he sank down on Mrs 
Catanach’s door-step. A light was burning in the cottage, but 
Malcolm would seek shelter for him anywhere rather than with 
her, and, in terror of her quick ears, caught him up in his arms 
like a child, and hurried away with him to Miss Horn’s. 

“ Eh sirs 1” exclaimed Miss Horn, when she opened the door 
— for Jean was among the merry-makers — “wha ’s this ’at ’s killt 
noo?” 

“ It’s the — laird — Mr Stewart,” returned Malcolm. “ He’s no 
freely killt, but nigh han’.” 

“ Na ! weel I wat ! Come in an’ set him doon till we see,” 
said Miss Horn, turning and leading the way up to her little 
parlour. 

There Malcolm laid his burden on the sofa, and gave a brief 
account of the rescue. 

“ Lord preserve ’s, Ma’colm !” cried Miss Horn, as soon as he 
had ended his tale, to which she had listened in silence, with 
fierce eyes and threatening nose ; “isna ’t a mercy I wasna made 
like some fowk, or I couldna ha’ bidden to see the puir fallow 
misguidet that gait ! It’s a special mercy, Ma’colm MacPhail, to 
be made wantin’ ony sic thing as feelin’s.” 

She was leaving the room as she spoke — to return instantly 
with brandy. The laird swallowed some with an effort, and be- 
gan to revive. 

“Eh, sirs!” exclaimed Miss Horn, regarding him now more 
narrowly — “but he’s in an awfu’ state o’ dirt ! I maun wash his 
face an’ han’s, an’ pit him till ’s bed. CouL l ye help aff wi’ ’a 
claes, Ma’colm? Though I haena ony feelin’s, I ’m jist some eerie- 
like at the puir body’s back.” 

The last words were uttered in what she judged a safe aside. 
As if she had been his mother, she washed his face and hands, and 


148 


MALCOLM . 


dried them tenderly, the laird submitting like a child. He spoke 
but one word — when she took him by the hand to lead him to 
the room where her cousin used to sleep : “ Father o’ lichts ! ” he 
said, and no more. Malcolm put him to bed, where he lay 
perfectly still, whether awake or asleep they could not tell. 

He then set out to go back to Lossie House, promising to re- 
turn after he had taken his grandfather home, and seen him also 
safe in bed. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE NIGHT WATCH. 

When Malcolm returned, Jean had retired for the night, and 
again it was Miss Horn who admitted him, and led him to her 
parlour. It was a low-ceiled room, with lean spider-legged 
furniture and dingy curtains. Everything in it was suggestive of 
a comfort slowly vanishing. An odour of withered rose-leaves 
pervaded the air. A Japanese cabinet stood in one corner, and 
on the mantelpiece a pair of Chinese fans with painted figures 
whose faces were embossed in silk, between which ticked an old 
French clock, whose supporters were a shepherd and shepherdess 
in prettily painted china. Long faded as was everything in it, the 
room was yet very rich in the eyes of Malcolm, whose home was 
bare even in comparison with that of the poorest of the fisher- 
women, they had a passion for ornamenting their chimneypieces 
with china ornaments, and their dressers with the most gorgeous 
crockery that their money could buy — a certain metallic orange 
being the prevailing hue; while in Duncan’s cottage, where woman 
had never initiated the taste, there was not even a china poodle 
to represent the finished development of luxury in the com- 
bination of the ugly and the useless. 

Miss Horn had made a little fire in the old-fashioned grate, 
whose bars bellied out like a sail almost beyond the narrow 
chimney-shelf, and a tea-kettle was singing on the hob, while a 
decanter, a sugar basin, a nutmeg grater, and other needful things 
on a tray, suggested negus, beyond which Miss Horn never went 
in the matter of stimulants, asserting that, as she had no feelings, 
she never required anything stronger. She made Malcolm sit 
down at the opposite side of the fire, and mixing him a tumbler 
of her favourite drink, began to question him about the day, and 
how things had gone. 


THE NIGHT WATCH \ 


149 


Miss Horn had the just repute of discretion, for, gladly hearing 
all the news, she had the rare virtue of not repeating things to the 
prejudice of others without some good reason for so doing; Mal- 
colm therefore, seated thus alone with her in the dead of the night, 
and bound to her by the bond of a common well-doing, had no 
hesitation in unfolding to her all his adventures of the evening. 
She sat with her big hands in her lap, making no remark, not even 
an exclamation, while he went on with the tale of the garret ; but 
her listening eyes grew — not larger — darker and fiercer as he 
spoke ; the space between her nostrils and mouth widened visibly ; 
the muscles knotted on the sides of her neck; and her nose 
curved more and more to the shape of a beak. 

“ There’s some deevilry there !” she said at length after he had 
finished, breaking a silence of some moments, during which she 
had been staring into the fire. “Whaur twa ill women come 
thegither, there maun be the auid man himsel’ atween them.” 

“ I dinna doobt it,” returned Malcolm. “An’ ane o’ them ’s 
an ill wuman, sure eneuch ; but I ken naething aboot the tither — 
only ’at she maun be a leddy, by the w’y the howdy-wife spak till 
her.” 

“ The waur token, when a leddy collogues wi’ a wuman aneth 
her ain station, an’ ane ’at has keppit ( caught in passing) mony a 
secret in her day, an’ by her callin’ has had mair opportunity — 
no to say farther — than ither fowk o’ duin’ ill things ! An’ gien 
ye dinna ken her, that’s no rizzon ’at I sudna hae a grofif guiss at 
her by the marks ye read aff o’ her. I’ll jist hae to tell ye a story 
sic as an auld wife like me seldom tells till a young man like yersel’.” 

“ Yer ain bridle sail rule my tongue, mem,” said Malcolm. 

“ I s’ lippen to yer discretion,” said Miss Horn, and straightway 
began. — “Some years ago— an’ I s’ warran’ it’s weel ower twinty 
— that same wuman, Bawby Cat’nach, — wha was nae hame-born 
wuman, nor had been lang aboot the toon — cornin’ as she did 
frae naebody kent whaur, ’cep maybe it was the markis ’at than 
was, preshumed to mak up to me i’ the w’y o’ frien’ly acquantance 
— sic as a maiden leddy micht hae wi’ a howdy — an’ no ’at she 
forgot her proaper behaviour to ane like mysel’. But I cudna 
hae bidden ( endured ) the jaud, ’cep ’at I had rizzons for lattin’ 
her jaw wag. She was cunnin’, the auld vratch, — no that auld — • 
maybe aboot forty, — but I was ower mony for her. She had the 
design to win at something she thoucht I kent, an’ sae, to 
enteece me to open my pock, she opent hers, an’ tellt me story 
efter story aboot this neebour an’ that — a’ o’ them things ’at 
ouchtna to ha’ been true, an’ ’at she ouchtna to ha’ loot pass her 
li.pr> gien they war true, seein’ she cam by the knowledge o’ them 


MALCOLM. 


150 

as she said she did. But she gat naething o’ me — the fiit-braint 
cat ! — an’ she hates me like the verra mischeef.” 

Miss Horn paused and took a sip of her negus. 

“ Ae day, I cam upon her siftin' by the ingleneuk i’ my ain 
kitchen, haudin’ a close an’ a laich confab wi’ Jean. I had Jean 
than, an’ hoo I hae keepit the hizzy, I hardly ken. I think it 
maun be that, haein’ nae feelin’s o’ my ain, I hae ower muckle 
regaird to ither fowk’s, an’ sae I never likit to pit her awa’ wi’oot 
doonricht provocation. But dinna ye lippen to Jean, Malcolm 
— na, na! — At that time, my cousin, Miss Grizel Cammed— -my 
third cousin, she was — had come to bide wi’ me — a bonny yoong 
thing as ye wad see, but in sair ill health ; an’ maybe she had her 
freits {whims), an’ maybe no, but she cudna bide to see the wuman 
Cat’nach aboot the place. An’ in verra trowth, she was to mysel’ 
like ane o’ thae ill-faured birds, I dinna min’ upo’ the name o’ 
them, ’at hings ower an airmy ; for wharever there was onybody 
nae weel, or onybody deid, there was Bawby Cat’nach. I hae 
hard o’ creepin’ things ’at veesits fowk ’at ’s no weel — an’ Bawby 
was, an’ is, ane sic like ! Sae I was angert at seein’ her colloguin’ 
wi’ Jean, an’ I cried Jean to me to the door o’ the kitchie. But 
wi’ that up jumps Bawby, an’ cornin’ efter her, says to me — says 
she, ‘Eh, Miss Horn ! there’s terrible news: Leddy Lossie’s deid; 
— she ’s been three ooks deid!’ — ‘Weel,’ says I, ‘what’s sae 
terrible aboot that?’ For ye ken I never had ony feelin’s, an’ I 
cud see naething sae awfu’ aboot a body deein’ i’ the ord’nar' w’y 
o’ natur like. ‘ We’ll no miss her muckle doon here,’ says I, ‘for 
I never hard o’ her bein’ at the Hoose sin’ ever I can min’.’ — - 
‘ But that’s no a’,’ says she ; ‘ only I wad be laith to speyk aboot 
it i’ the transe (passage). Lat me up the stair wi’ ye, an’ I’ll teli 
ye mair.’ Weel, pairtly ’at I was ta’en by surprise like, an’ pairtly 
’at I wasna sae auld as I am noo, an’ pairtly that I was keerious 
to hear — ill ’at I likit her — what neist the wuman wad say, I did 
as I ouchtna, an’ turned an’ gaed up the stair, an’ loot her follow 
me. Whan she cam in, she pat tu the door ahint her, an’ turnt 
to me, an’ said — says she : ‘ An ’wha ’s deid forbye, think ye ?’ — 
* I hae hard o’ naebody,’ I answered. ‘ Wha but the laird c’ 
Gersefell !’ says she. ‘ I’m sorry to hear that, honest man !’ says 
I ; for a’body likit Mr Stewart. * An’ what think ye o’ ’t ? ’ says 
she, wi’ a runklin o’ her broos, an’ a shak o’ her heid, an’ a settin’ 
o’ her roon’ meves upo’ the fat hips o’ her. ‘Think o’ ’t?’ says 
I ; ‘ what sud I think o’ ’t, but that it’s the wull o’ Providence?* 
Wi’ that she leuch till she wabblet a’ ower like cauld skink, an* 
says she — ‘ Weel, that’s jist what it is no, an’ that lat me tell ye/ 
Miss Horn !’ I glowert at her, maist frichtit into believin’ she was 


THE NIGHT WATCH. 


151 

the witch fowk ca’d her. ‘ Wha’s son ’s the hump-backit cratur\ 
says she, ‘ ’at comes in i’ the gig whiles wi’ the groom-lad, think 
ye ? ’ — 8 Wha’s but the puir man’s ’at's deid ? ’ says I. 1 Deil a bit 
o’ ’t !’ says she, ‘ an’ I beg yer pardon for mentionin’ o’ him] says 
she. An’ syne she screwt up her mou’, an’ cam closs up till me 
— for I wadna sit doon mysel’, an’ less wad I bid her, an’ was 
sorry eneuch by this time ’at I had broucht her up the stair — an’ 
says she, layin’ her han’ upo’ my airm wi’ a clap, as gien her an’ 
me was to be freen’s upo’ sic a gran’ foondation o’ dirt as that ! — 
says she, makin’ a laich toot-moot o’ ’t, — ‘He’s Lord Lossie’s?’ 
says she, an’ maks a face ’at micht hae turnt a cat sick — only by 
guid luck I had nae feelin’s. ‘ An’ nae suner’s my leddy deid nor 
her man follows her !’ says she. ‘An’ what do ye mak o’ that?’ 
says she. ‘Ay, what do ye mak o’ that?’ says I till her again, 
‘ Ow ! what ken I ?’ says she, wi’ anither ill leuk ; an’ wi’ that she 
leuch an’ turned awa, but turned back again or she wan to the 
door, an J says she — ‘ Maybe ye didna ken ’at she was b.oucnt to 
bed hersel’ aboot a sax ooks ago ?’ — ‘ P iix leddy !’ said 1, tninkin’ 
mair o’ her evil report nor o’ the pains o’ childbirth. ‘ Ay,’ says 
she, wi’ a deevilich kin’ o’ a lauch, like in spite o’ hersel’, ‘ for the 
bairn’s deid, they tell me — as bonny a ladbairn as ye wad see, jist 
ooncoamon ! An’ whaur div ye think she had her doon-lying ? ' 
Jist at Lossie Hoose !’ Wi’ that she was oot at the door wi’ a 
swag o’ her tail, an’ doon the stair to Jean again. I was jist at ane 
mair wi’ anger at mysel’ an’ scunner at her, an’ was in tvva min’s 
to gang efter her an’ turn her oot o’ the hoose, her an’ Jean 
thegither. I could hear her snicherin’ till hersel’ as she gaed 
doon the stair. My verra stamack turned at the poozhonous ted. 

“ I canna say what was true or what was fause i’ the scandal o’ 
her tale, nor what for she tuik the trouble to cairry ’t to me, but 
it sune cam to be said ’at the yoong laird was but half-wittet as 
weeks humpit, an’ ’at his mither cudna biae him. An’ certain it 
was ’at the puir wee chap cud as little bide his mither. Gien she 
cam near him ohn luikit for, they said, he wad giea great skriech, 
and rin as fast as his wee weyver ( spider ) legs cud wag aneth the 
wecht o’ s humpie — an’ whiles her after him wi’ ony thing she cud 
lay her han’ upo’, they said— but I kenna. Ony gait, the widow 
hersel’ grew waur and waur i’ the temper, an’ I misdoobt me sair 
was gey hard upo’ the puir wee objeck — fell cruel til. 1 ’m, they said 
— till at len’th, as a’ body kens, he forhooit {forsook) the hoose 
a’thegither. An’ puttin’ this an’ that thegither, for I hear a 
han tie said ’at I say na ower again, it seems to me ’at her first 
scunner at her puir misformt bairn, wha they say was humpit 
whan he was born an’ maist cost her her life to get lowst o’ him 


152 MALCOLM. 

— her scunner at *ira ’s been growin’ an’ growin , till it's grown to 

doonricht hate." 

“ It’s an awfu’ thing ’at ye say, mem, an’ I doobt it’s owe* 
true. But hoc can a mither hate her ain bairn ? ” said Malcolm. 

“ ’Deed it’s nae wonner ye sud speir, laddie ! for it’s weel kent 
’at maist mithers, gien there be a shargar or a nat’ral or a crookit 
ane amo’ their bairns, mak mair o’ that ane nor o’ a’ the lave 
putten thegither — as gien they wad mak it up till ’im, for the fair 
play o’ the warl.” But ye see in this case, he’s aiblins ( perhaps ) 
the child o’ sin — for a leear may tell an ill trowth — an’ beirs the 
marks o’ ’t, ye see ; sae to her he’s jist her sin rinnin’ aboot the 
warl incarnat ; an’ that canna be pleesant to luik upo’.” 

“ But excep’ she war ashamed o’ ’t, she wadna tak it sae muckle 
to hert to be remin’t o’ ’t.” 

“ Mony ane’s ashamed o’ the consequences ’at’s no ashamed o’ 
the deed. Mony ane cud du the sin ower again, ’at canna bide 
the sicht or even the word o’ ’t. I hae seen a body ’t wad steal 
a thing as sune’s luik at it gang daft wi’ rage at bein’ ca’d a thief. 
An’ maybe she wadna care gien ’t warna for the oogliness o’ im. 
Sae be he was a bonny sin, I’m thinkin’ she wad bide him weel 
eneuch. But seein’ he ’s naither i’ the image o’ her ’at bore ’im 
nor him ’at got ’im, but beirs on ’s back, for ever in her sicht, the 
sin ’at was the gettin’ o’ ’m, he’s a ’ hump to her, an’ her hert’s aye 
howkin a grave for ’im to lay ’im oot o’ sicht intill : she bore ’im, 
an’ she wad beery ’im. An’ I’m thinkin’ she beirs the markis— 
gien sae it be sae — deid an’ gane as he is — a grutch yet, for 
passin’ sic an offspring upo’ her, an’ syne no merryin’ her efter 
an’ a’, an’ the ro’d clear o’ baith ’at stude atween them. It was 
said ’at the man 'at killt ’im in a twasum fecht (duel), sae mony 
a year efter, was a freen’ o’ hers.” 

“ But wad fowk du sic awfu’ ill things, mem — her a merried 
woman, an’ him a merried man ? ” 

“ There’s nae sayin’, laddie, what a hantle o’ men and some 
women wad du. I hae muckle to be thankfu’ for ’at I was sic as 
no man ever luikit twice at. 1 wasna weel-faured eneuch ; 
though I had bonny hair, an’ my mither aye said ’at her Maggy 
hed guid sense, whatever else she micht or micht not hae. But 
gien I cud hae gotten a guid man, sic-like’s is scarce, I cud hae 
lo’ed him weel eneuch. But that’s naither here nor there, an’ has 
naething to du wi’ onybody ava. The pint I had to come till 
was this : the wuman ye saw haudin’ a toot moot {tout muet ?) wi’ 
that Cat’nach wife, was nane ither, I do believe, than Mistress 
Stewart, the puir laird’s mither. An’ I hae as little doobt that 
whan ye tuik ’s pairt, ye broucht to noucht a plot o’ the twasum 


THE NIGHT WATCH. 


153 


{two together) against him. It bodes guid to naebody whan 
there’s a conjunc o’ twa sic wanderin’ stars o’ blackness as yon 
twa.” 

“His ain mither!” exclaimed Malcolm, brooding in horror 
over the frightful conjecture. 

The door opened, and the mad laird came in. His eyes were 
staring w'ide, but their look and that of his troubled visage showed 
that he was awake only in some frightful dream. “ Father o’ 
lichts !” he murmured once and again, but making wild gestures, 
as if warding off blows. Miss Horn took him gently by the hand. 
The moment he felt her touch, his face grew calm, and he sub- 
mitted at once to be led back to bed. 

“ Ye may tak yer aith upo’ ’t, Ma’colm,” she said when she 
returned, “ she means naething but ill by that puir cratur ; but 
you and me — we’ll ding ( defeat ) her yet, gien’t be his wull. She 
wants a grip o’ m for some ill rizzon or ither — to lock him up in 
a madhoose, maybe, as the villains said, or ’deed, maybe, to mak 
awa’ wi’ him a’thegither.” 

“ But what guid wad that du her ? ” said Malcolm. 

“ It’s ill to say, but she wad hae him oot o’ her sicht, ony 
gait.” 

“ She can hae but little sicht o’ him as ’tis,” objected Malcolm. 

“ Ay ! but she aye kens he’s whaur she doesna ken, puttin’ her 
to shame, a’ aboot the country, wi’ that hump o’ his. Oot o’ 
fbwk’s sicht wad be to her oot a’ thegither.” 

A brief silence followed. 

“ Noo,” said Malcolm, “ we come to the question what the twa 
limmers could want wi’ that door.” 

“ Dear kens ! It bude to be something wrang — that’s a’ ’at 
mortal can say ; but ye may be sure o’ that — I hae hard tell,” 
she went on reflectingly — “ o’ some room or ither i’ the hoose ’at 
there’s a fearsome story aboot, an’ ’at ’s never opent on no ac- 
coont. I hae hard a’ aboot it, but I canna min’ upo’ ’t noo, 
for I paid little attention till ’t at the time, an’ it’s mony a year 
sin’ syne. But it wad be some deevilich ploy o’ their ain they 
wad be efter : it’s little the likes o’ them wad heed sic auld warld 
tales.” 

“ Wad ye hae me tell the markis ? ” asked Malcolm. 

“Na, I wad no ; an’ yet ye maun du ’t. Ye hae no business 
to ken o’ onything wrang in a body’s hoose, an’ no tell them — • 
forbye ’at he pat ye in chairge. But it ’ll du naething for the 
laird ; for what cares the markis for onything or onybody but 
h.imsel’ ? ” 

“ He cares for ’s dauchter,” said Malcolm. 


154 


MALCOLM, 


“ Ow ay ! — ■*$ sic fowk ca’ carin’. There’s no a bla’guard ? 
the haill queenfry ne wadna sell her till, sae be he was o’ an auld 
eneuch faimily, and had rowth o’ siller. Haith ! noo a days the 
last ’ill come first, an’ a fish-cadger wi’ siller ’ill be coontit a 
better bargain nor a lord wantin ’t : only he maun hae a heap o’ ’t, 
to cower the stink o’ the fish.” 

“ Dinna scorn the fish, mem,” said Malcolm : “ they’re innocent 
craturs, an’ dinna smell waur nor they can help ; an’ that’s mair 
nor ye can say for ilka lord ye come athort.” 

“ Ay, or cadger aither,” rejoined Miss Horn. “ They’re aft 
eneuch jist sic like, the main differ lyin’ in what they’re defiled 
wi’ ; an’ ’deed whiles there’s no differ there, or maist ony gait, 
maybe, but i’ the set o’ the shoothers, an’ the wag o’ the tongue.” 

“ An’ what ’ll we du wi’ the laird ? ” said Malcolm. 

“ We maun first see what we can du wi’ him. I wad try to keep 
him mysel’, that is, gien he wad bide — but there’s that jaud Jean ! 
She’s aye gabbin’, an’ claikin’, an’ cognostin’ wi’ the enemy, an’ I 
canna lippen till her. I think it wad be better ye sud tak chairge 
o’ ’m yersel’, Malcolm. I wad willin’ly beir ony expense — for 
ye wadna be able to luik efter him an’ du sae weel at the fishin’, 
ye ken.” 

“ Gien ’t had been my ain line-fishin’, I could aye ha’ taen him 
i’ the boat wi’ me ; but I dinna ken for the herrin’. Blue Peter 
wadna objeck, but it’s some rouch work, an’ for a waikly body 
like the laird to be oot a’ nicht some nichts, sic weather as we hae 
to encoonter whiles, micht be the deid o’ ’m.” 

They came to no conclusion beyond this, that each would think 
it over, and Malcolm would call in the morning. Ere then, how- 
ever, the laird had dismissed the question for them. When Miss 
Horn rose, after an all but sleepless night, she found that he had 
taken the affairs again into his own feeble hands, and vanished 


CHAPTER XX VL 

NOT AT CHURCH. 

It being well known that Joseph Mair’s cottage was one of the 
laird’s resorts, Malcolm, as soon as he learned his flight, set out 
to inquire whether they knew anything of him there. 

Scaurnose was perched almost on the point of the promontory, 
where the land made its final slope, ending in a precipitous 


NOT AT CHURCH \ 


*55 


descer-t to the shore. Beneath lay rocks of all sizes and of fan- 
tastic forms, some fallen from the cape in tempests perhaps, some 
softly separated from it by the slow action of the winds and waves 
of centuries. A few of them formed, by their broken defence 
seawards, the unsafe natural harbour which was all the place 
enjoyed. 

If ever there was a place of one colour it was this village : 
everything was brown ; the grass near it was covered with brown 
nets ; at the daors were brown heaps of oak-bark, which, after 
dyeing the nets:, was used for fuel ; the cottages were roofed 
with uid brown thatch ; and the one street and the many closes 
were dark brown with the peaty earth which, well mixed with 
scattered bark, scantily covered the surface of its huge foundation- 
rock. There w'as no pavement, and it was the less needed that 
the ways were rarely used by wheels of any description. The 
village was but a roost, like the dwellings of the sea birds which 
also haunted the rocks. 

It was a gray morning with a gray sky and a gray sea ; all was 
brown aikd gray, peaceful and rather sad. Brown-haired, gray- 
•fiyed Pheiny Mair sat in the threshold, intently rubbing in her 
hands a small object like a moonstone. That she should be 
doing so on a Sunday would have shocked few in Scaurnose at 
that time, for the fisher folk then made but small pretensions to 
religion; and for his part Joseph Mair could not believe that 
the Aimighty would be offended “ at seem* a bairn sittin’ douce 
wi’ her playocks, though the day was his.” 

“ Weel, Phemy, ye’re busy !” said Malcolm. 

“ Ay,” answered the child, without looking up. The manner 
was not courteous, but her voice was gentle and sweet. 

“ What are ye doin’ there?’ 5 he asked. 

“ Makin’ a string o’ beads, to weir at aunty’s merriage." 

“ What are ye makin’ them o’?” he went on. 

" Had dicks’ een.” 

" Are they a ; haddicks’?” 

“ Na, there’s some cods’ amo’ them ; but they’re maistly had- 
dicks’. I pikes them out afore they’re sautit, an’ biles them ; an* 
syne I polish them i’ my han’s till they re rale bonny.” 

“ Can ye tsll me anything about the mad laird, Phemy?” asked 
Malcolm, in his anxiety too abruptly. 

“ Ye can gang an’ speir at my father : he’s oot aboot,” she 
answered, with a sort of marked coolness, which, added to the 
fact that she had never looked him in the face, made him more 
than suspect something behind. 

“ Viv ye ken onything aboot him?” he therefore insisted. 


15 ^ 


MALCOLM. 


« Maybe I div, an’ maybe I divna,” answered the child, witH 
an expression of determined mystery. 

“ Ye’ll tell me whaur ye think he is, Phemy ?” 

“ Na, I winna.” 

“ What for no?” 

“ Ow, jist for fear ye sud ken.” 

“ But I’m a freen’ till him.” 

“Ye may think ay, an’ the laird may think no.” 

“ Does he think you a freen’, Phemy?” asked Malcolm, in the 
hope of coming at something by widening the sweep of the 
conversation. 

“ Ay, he kens I’m a freen’,” she replied. 

“ An’ do ye aye ken whaur he is ? ” 

“ Na, no aye. He gangs here an’ he gangs there — jist as he likes. 
It’s whan naebody kens whaur he is, that I ken, an’ gang till him.” 

“ Is he i’ the hoose?” 

“ Na. he’s no i’ the hoose.” 

“Whaur is he than, Phemy?” said Malcolm coaxingly. 
“ There’s ill fowk aboot ’at’s efter deein’ him an ill turn.” 

“ The mair need no to tell !” retorted Phemy. 

“ But I want to tak care ’o ’im. Tell me whaur he is, l-ks a 
guid lassie, Phemy.” 

“ I’m no sure. I may say I dinna ken.” 

“ Ye say ye ken whan ither fowk disna : noo naebody kens.” 

“ Hoo ken ye that?” 

“ ’Cause he’s run awa.” 

“ Wha frae ? His mither ? ” 

“ Na, na ; frae Miss Horn.” 

“ I ken naething aboot her; but gien naebody kens, I ken 
whaur he is weel eneuch.” 

“ Whaur than? Ye’ll be duin’ him a guid turn to tell me.” 

“ Whaur I winna tell, an’ whaur you nor nae ither body d get 
him. An’ ye needna speir, for it wadna be richt to tell ; an’ -:en 
ye gang on speirin’, you an' me winna be lang freen’s ” 

As she spoke, the child looked straight up into his face with 
wide-opened blue eyes, as truthful as the heavens, and Malcolm 
dared not press her, for it would have been to press her to do 
wrong. 

“Ye wad tell yer father, wadna ye ?” he said kindly. 

“ My father wadna speir. My father’s a guid man.” 

“ W T eel, Phemy, though ye winna trust me — supposin’ I was to 
trust you 1” 

“Ye can du that gien ye like,” 

“ An’ ye winna tell ?” 


NOT AT CHURCH. 


157 


“ I s’ mak nae promises. It’ no trustin’, to gar me promise ” 

“ Weel, I wull trust ye. — Tell the laird to haud weel oot o* 
sicht for a whilie.” 

“ He’ll du that,” said Phemy. 

“ An’ tell him gien onything befa’ him, to sen’ to Miss Horn, 
for Ma’colm MacPhail may be oot wi’ the boats. — Ye winna 
forget that?” 

“ I’m no lickly to forget it,” answered Phemy, apparently 
absorbed in boring a hole in a haddock’s eye with a pin so bent 
as to act like a brace and bit. 

“Ye’ll no get yer string o’ beads in time for the weddin’, 
Phemy,” remarked Malcolm, going on to talk from a desire to 
give the child a feeling of his friendliness. 

“ Ay will I — fine that,” she rejoined. 

“ Whan is ’t to be?” 

“ Ow, neist Setterday. Ye’ll be cornin’ ower?” 

“ I haena gotten a call.” 

“ Ye ’ll be gettin’ ane.” 

“ Div ye think they’ll gie me ane?” 

“ As sune ’s onybody. — Maybe by that time I’ll be able to gie 
ye some news o’ the laird.” 

“ There’s a guid lassie !” 

“ Na, na ; I’m makin’ nae promises,” said Phemy. 

Malcolm left her and went to find her father, who, although it 
was Sunday, was already “ oot aboot,” as she had said. He 
found him strolling in meditation along the cliffs. They had a 
little talk together, but Joseph knew nothing of the laird. 

Malcolm took Lossie House on his way back, for he had not 
yet seen the marquis, to whom he must report his adventures of 
the night before. The signs of past revelling were plentifully 
visible as he approached the house. The marquis was not yet 
up, bat Mrs Courthope undertaking to send him word as soon 
as his lordship was to be seen, he threw himself on the grass and 
waited — his mind occupied with strange questions, started by 
the Sunday coming after such a Saturday — among the rest, how 
God could permit a creature to be born so distorted and helpless 
as the laird, and then permit him to be so abused in consequence 
of his helplessness. The problems of life were beginning to Mte. 
Everywhere things appeared uneven. He was not one to com- 
plain of mere external inequalities : if he was inclined to envy 
Lord Meikleham, it was not because of his social position : he 
was even now philosopher enough to know that the life of a 
fisherman was preferable to that of such a marquis as Lord 
Lossie — that the desirableness of a life is to be measured by the 


i 5 3 


MALCOLM. 


amount of interest and not by the amount of ease in it, for the 
more ease the more unrest ; neither was he inclined to complain 
of the gulf that yawned so wide between him and Lady Florimel ; 
the difficulty lay deeper : such a gulf existing, by a social law 
only less inexorable than a natural one, why should he feel the 
rent invading his individual being? in a word, though Malcolm 
put it in no such definite shape : Why should a fisher lad find 
himself in danger of falling in love with the daughter of a mar- 
quis ? Why should such a thing, seeing the very constitution of 
things rendered it an absurdity, be yet a possibility ? 

The church bell began, rang on, and ceased. The sound of 
the psalms came, softly mellowed, and sweetly harmonized, across 
the churchyard through the gray Sabbath air, and he found him- 
self, for the first time, a stray sheep from the fold. The service 
must have been half through before a lackey, to whom Mrs 
Courthope had committed the matter when she went to church, 
brought him the message that the marquis would see him. 

“ Well, MacPhail, what do you want with me?” said his lord- 
ship as he entered. 

“ It’s my duty to acquant yer lordship wi’ certain proceeding 
'at took place last night,” answered Malcolm. 

“ Go on,” said the marquis. 

Thereupon Malcolm began at the beginning, and told of the 
men he had watched, and how, in the fancy of following them, 
he had found himself in the garret, and what he saw and did 
there. 

“ Did you recognize either of the women ? ” asked Lord 
Lossie. 

“ Ane o’ them, my lord,” answered Malcolm. “ It was Mistress 
Catanach, the howdie.” 

“ What sort of a woman is she?” 

“ Some fowk canna bide her, my lord. I ken no ill to lay till 
her chairge, but I winna lippen till her. My gran’father — an’ he’s 
blin’, ye ken — jist trimles whan she comes near him.” 

The marquis smiled. 

“ What do you suppose she was about?” he asked. 

“ I ken nae mair than the bonnet I flang in her face, my lord ; 
but it could hardly be guid she was efter. At ony rate, seem’ 
yer lordship pat me m a mainner in chairge, I bude to haud her 
oot o’ a closed room— an’ her gaein’ creepin’ aboot yer lordship’s 
hoose like a worm.” 

“ Quite right. Will you pull the bell there for me ?” 

He told the man to send Mrs Courthope; but he said she had 
not yet come home from church. 


NOT AT CHURCH. 


*59 

“ Could you take me to the room, MacPhail?” asked his 

lordship. 

“ I’ll try, my lord,” answered Malcolm. 

. As far as the proper quarter of the attics, he went straight as a 
pigeon ; in that labyrinth he had to retrace his steps once or 
twice, but at length he stopped, and said confidently— 

“ This is the door, my lord.” 

“ Are you sure ? ” 

“ As sure’s death, my lord.” 

The marquis tried the door and found it immovable. 

“ You say she had the key?” 

“ No, my lord : I said she had keys, but whether she had the 
key, I doobt if she kent herseu It may ha’ been ane o’ the 
bundle yet to try.” 

“You’re a sharp fellow,” said the marquis. “I wish I had 
such a servant about me.” 

“ I wad mak a some rouch ane, I doobt,” returned Malcolm, 
laughing. 

His lordship was of another mind, but pursued the subject no 
farther. 

“ I have a vague recollection,” he said, “ of some room in the 
house having an old story or legend connected with it. I must 
find out* I daresay Mrs Courthope knows. Meantime you hold 
your tongue. We may get some amusement out of this.” 

“ I wull, my lord, like a deid man an’ beery t.” 

“ You can — can you?” 

“ I can, my lord.” 

“ You’re a rare one ! ” said the marquis. 

Malcolm thought he was making game of him as heretofore, 
and held his peace. 

“ You can go home now,” said his lordship. “ I will see to 
this affair. 

“ But jist be canny middlin’ wi’ Mistress Catanach, my lord : 
she’s no mowse.” 

“What ! you’re not afraid of an old woman ? ” 

“ Deil a bit, my lord ! — that is, I’m no feart at a dogfish or a 
rottan, but I wud tak tent an’ grip them the richt gait, for they 
hae teeth. Some fowk think Mistress Catanach has mair teeth 
nor she shaws.” 

“ Well, if she’s too much for me, I’ll send for you,” said the 
marquis good-humouredly. 

“Ye canna get me sae easy, my lord : we’re efter the herrin* 
noo.” 


Well, well, we’ll see.” 


MALCOLM , i 


160 

“ But T wantit to tell ye anither thing my lord,” said Malcolm, 

as he followed the marquis down the stairs. 

“ What is that ? ” 

“ I cam upo’ anither plot — a mair serious ane, bein’ against a 
man ’at can ill haud aff o’ himsel’, an’ cud waur bide onything 
than yer lordship — the puir mad laird.” 

“Who’s he?” 

“ Ilka body kens him, my lord ! He’s son to the leddy o’ 

Kirkbyres.” 

“ I remember her — an old flame of my brother’s.” 

“ I ken naething aboot that, my lord ; but he’s her son.” 

“ What about him, then?” 

They had now reached the hall, and, seeing the marquis impa- 
tient, Malcolm confined himself to the principal facts. 

“ I don’: think you had any business to interfere, MacPhail,” 
said his lordship, seriously. “ His mother must know best.” 

“ I’m no sae sure o’ that, my lord ! To say naething o’ the 
illguideship, which micht hae garred a minister sweer, it wud be 
a cruelty naething short o’ deev’lich to lock up a puir hairmless 
cratur like that, as innocent as he ’s ill-shapit.” 

“ He’s as God made him,” said the marquis. 

“ He ’s no as God wull mak him,” returned Malcolm. 

“What do you mean by that?” asked the marquis. 

“ It stan’s to rizzon, my lord,” answered Malcolm, “ that 
what’s ill-made maun be made ower again. There’s a day cornin’ 
whan a’ ’at’s wrang ’ll be set richt, ye ken.” 

“And the crooked made straight,” suggested the marquis 
laughing. 

“ Doobtless, my lord. He’ll be strauchtit oot bonny that day,” 
said Malcolm with absolute seriousness. 

“ Bah ! You don’t think God cares about a misshapen lump of 
flesh like that !” exclaimed his lordship with contempt. 

“ As muckle’s aboot yersel’, or my leddy,” said Malcolm. 
“ Gien he didna, he wadna be nae God ava’ (at all).” 

The marquis laughed again : he heard the words with his ears, 
but his heart w^as deaf to the thought they clothed ; hence he 
took Malcolm’s earnestness for irreverence, and it amused him. 

“ You’ve not got to set things right, anyhow,” he said. “ You 
mind your ow r n business.” 

“ I’ll try, my lord it’s the business o’ ilka man, whaur he can, 
to lowse the weichty birns, an’ lat the forfouchten gang free.* — 
Guid day to ye, my lord.” 

So saying the young fisherman turned, and left the marquis 
laughing in the hall. 


Isa. lviiL 


LORD CERNON. 


I5i 


CHAPTER XXVIL 

LORD GERNON. 

When his housekeeper returned from church, Lord Lossie sent 
for her. 

“ Sit down, Mrs Courthope,” he said ; “ I want to ask you 
about a story I have a vague recollection of hearing when I spent 
a summer at this house some twenty years ago. It had to do 
with a room in the house that was never opened.” 

“ There is such a story, my lord,” answered the housekeeper. 

‘The late marquis, I remember well, used to laugh at it, and 
threaten now and then to dare the prophecy ; but old Eppie per- 
Kuaded him not — or at least fancied she did.” 

“ Who is old Eppie ? ” 

“She’s gone now, my lord. She was over a hundred then. 
She was born and brought up in the house, lived all her days in 
it, and died in it ; so she knew more about the place than any 
one else.” 

“Is ever likely to know,” said the marquis, superadding a 
close to her sentence. “ And why wouldn’t she have the room 
opened ? ” he asked. 

“ Because of the ancient prophecy, my lord.” 

“ I can’t recall a single point of the story.” 

“ I wish old Eppie were alive to tell it,” said Mrs Courthope. 

“ Don’t you know it then ? ” 

“ Yes, pretty well ; but my English tongue can’t tell it properly. 
It doesn’t sound right out of my mouth. I’ve heard it a good 
many times too, for I had often to take a visitor to her room to 
hear it, and the old woman liked nothing better than telling it 
But I couldn’t help remarking that it had grown a good bit even 
in my time. The story was like a tree : it got bigger every year.” 

“ That’s the way with a good many stories,” said the marquis. 
“ But tell me the prophecy at least.” 

“ That is the only part I can give just as she gave it. It’s in 
rhyme. I hardly understand it, but I’m sure of the words.” 

“ Let us have them then, if you please.” 

Mrs Courthope reflected for a moment, and then repeated the 
following lines : 

•* The lord quha wad sup on 3 thowmes o’ cauld aim* 

The ayr quha wad kythe a bastard and carena, 

The mayd quha wad tyne her man and her bairn. 

Lift the sneck, and enter, and fearna.” 


162 


MALCOLM. 


“ That’s it, my lord,” she said, in conclusion. “ And there’s 
one thing to be observed,” she added, “ — that that door is the 
only one in all the passage that has a sneck, as they call it.” 

“ What is a sneck ? ” asked his lordship, who was not much of 
a scholar in his country’s tongue. 

“ What we call a latch in England, my lord. I took pains to 
learn the Scotch correctly, and I’ve repeated it to your lordship, 
word for word.” 

“I don’t doubt it,” returned Lord Lossie, “but for the sense, 

I can make nothing of it. — And you think my brother believed 
the story ? ” 

“ He always laughed at it, my lord, but pretended at least to 
give in to old Eppie’s entreaties.” 

“ You mean that he was more near believing it than he liked 
to confess ? ” 

“ That’s not what I mean, my lord.” 

“ Why do you say pretended then ? ” 

“Because when the news of his death came, some people 
about the place would have it that he must have opened the door 
some time or other.” 

“ How did they make that out?” 

“ From the first line of the prophecy.” 

“ Repeat it again.” 

“ The lord quha wad sup on 3 thowmes o’ cauld aim,” said 
Mrs Courthope with emphasis, adding, “The three she always 
said was a figure 3.” 

“ That implies it was written somewhere ! ” 

“ She said it was legible on the door in her day — as if burnt 
with a red-hot iron.” 

“ And what does the line mean ? ” 

“ Eppie said it meant that the lord of the place who opened 
that door, would die by a sword-wound. Three inches of cold 
iron, it means, my lord.” 

The marquis grew thoughtful ; his brother had died in a sword- 
duel. For a few moments he was silent. 

“ Tell me the whole story,” he said at length. 

Mrs Courthope again reflected, and began. I will tell the 
story, however, in my own words, reminding my reader that if he 
regards it as an unwelcome interruption, he can easily enough 
avoid this bend of the river of my narrative by taking a short cut 
across to the next chapter. 

In an ancient time there was a lord of Lossie who practised 
unholy works. Although he had other estates, he lived almost 


LORD GERNON. 


163 


entirely at the House of Lossie — that is, after his return from the 
East, where he had spent his youth and early manhood. But he 
paid no attention to his affairs : a steward managed everything 
for him, and Lord Gernon (for that was the outlandish name he 
brought from England, where he was born while his father was 
prisoner to Edward Longshanks) trusted him for a great while 
without making the least inquiry into his accounts, apparently 
contented with receiving money enough to carry on the various 
vile experiments which seemed his sole pleasure in life. There 
was no doubt in the minds of the people of the town — the old 
town that is, which was then much larger, and clustered about the 
gates of the House — that he had dealings with Satan, from whom 
he had gained authority over the powers of nature ; that he was 
able to rouse and lay the winds, to bring down rain, to call forth 
the lightnings and set the thunders roaring over town and sea; 
nay, that he could even draw vessels ashore on the rocks, with 
the certainty that not one on board would be left alive to betray 
the pillage of the wreck : this and many other deeds of dire note 
were laid to his charge in secret. The town cowered at the foot 
of the House in terror of what its lord might bring down upon it 
— as a brood of chickens might cower if they had been hatched 
by a kite, and saw, instead of the matronly head and beak of the 
hen of their instinct, those of the bird of prey projected over them. 
Scarce one of them dared even look from the door when the 
thunder was rolling over their heads, the lightnings flashing about 
the roofs and turrets of the House, the wind raving in fits between 
as if it would rave its last, and the rain falling in sheets — not so 
much from fear of the elements, as for horror of the far more 
terrible things that might be spied careering in the storm. And 
indeed Lord Gernon himself was avoided in like fashion, although 
rarely had any one the evil chance of seeing him, so seldom did 
he go out of doors. There was but one in the whole community 
. — and that was a young girl, the daughter of his steward — who 
declared she had no fear of him : she went so far as to uphold 
that Lord Gernon meant harm to nobody, and was in conse- 
quence regarded by the neighbours as unrighteously bold. 

He worked in a certain lofty apartment on the ground floor — 
with cellars underneath, reserved, it was believed, for frightfullest 
conjurations and interviews; where, although no one was per- 
mitted to enter, they knew from the smoke that he had a furnace, 
and from the evil smells which wandered out, that he dealt with 
things altogether devilish in their natures and powers. They said 
he always washed there — in water medicated with distilments to 
prolong life and produce invulnerability ; but of this they could 


1 6 4 


MALCOLM. 


of course know nothing. Strange to say, however, he always 
slept in the garret, —as far removed from his laboratory as the 
limits of the house would permit ; whence people said he dared 
not sleep in the neighbourhood of his deeds, but sought shelter 
for his unconscious hours in the spiritual shadow of the chapel, 
which was in the same wing as his chamber. His household saw 
nearly as little of him as his retainers : when his tread was heard, 
beating dull on the stone turnpike, or thundering along the upper 
corridors in the neighbourhood of his chamber or of the library — 
the only other part of the house he visited, man or maid would 
dart aside into the next way of escape — all believing that the 
nearer he came to finding himself the sole inhabitant of his house, 
the better he was pleased. Nor would he allow man or woman 
to enter his chamber any more than his laboratory. When they 
found sheets or garments outside his door, they removed them 
with fear and trembling, and put others in their place. 

At length, by means of his enchantments, he discovered that 
the man whom he had trusted had been robbing him for many 
years: all the time he had been searching for the philosopher’s 
stone, the gold already his had been tumbling into the bags of 
his steward. But what enraged him far more was, that the fellow 
had constantly pretended difficulty in providing the means neces* 
sary for the prosecution of his idolized studies : even if the feudal 
lord could have accepted the loss and forgiven the crime, here 
was a mockery which the man of science could not pardon. He 
summoned his steward to his presence, and accused him of his 
dishonesty. The man denied it energetically, but a few mysteri- 
ous waftures of the hand of his lord, set him trembling, and after 
a few more, his lips, moving by a secret compulsion, and finding 
no power in their owner to check their utterance, confessed all 
the truth, whereupon his master ordered him to go and bring his 
accounts. He departed all but bereft of his senses, and staggered 
home as if in a dream. There he begged his daughter to go and 
plead for him with his lord, hoping she might be able to move him 
to mercy; for she was a lovely girl, and supposed by the neighbours, 
judging from what they considered her foolhardiness, to have 
received from him tokens of something at least less than aversion. 

She obeyed, and from that hour disappeared. The people of 
the house averred afterwards that the next day, and for days 
following, they heard, at intervals, moans and cries from the wiz- 
ard’s chamber, or some where in its neighbourhood — certainly not 
from the laboratory; but as they had seen no one visit their master, 
they had paid them little attention, classing them with the other 
and hellish noises they were but too much accustomed to hear. 


LORD GERNON. 


165 


The stewards love for his daughter, though it could not em- 
bolden him to seek her in the tyrant’s den, drove him, at length, 
to appeal to the justice of his country for what redress might yet 
be possible : he sought the court of the great Bruce, and laid his 
complaint before him. That righteous monarch immediately de- 
spatched a few of his trustiest men-at-arms, under the protection 
of a monk whom he believed a match for any wizard under the 
sun, to arrest Lord Gernon and release the girl. When they 
arrived at Lossie House, they found it silent as the grave. The 
domestics had vanished ; but by following the minute directions 
of the steward, whom no persuasion could bring to set foot across 
the threshold, they succeeded in finding their way to the parts of 
the house indicated by him. Having forced the laboratory and 
found it forsaken, they ascended, in the gathering dusk of a winter 
afternoon, to the upper regions of the house. Before they reached 
the top of the stair that led to the wizard’s chamber, they began 
to hear inexplicable sounds, which grew plainer, though not much 
louder, as they drew nearer to the door. They were mostly like 
the grunting of some small animal of the hog-kind, with an 
occasional one like the yelling roar of a distant lion ; but with 
these were now and then mingled cries of suffering, so fell and 
strange that their souls recoiled as if they would break loose from 
their bodies to get out of hearing of them. The monk himself 
started back when first they invaded his ear, and it was no wonder 
then that the men-at-arms should hesitate to approach the room ; 
and as they stood irresolute, they saw a faint light go flickering across 
the upper part of the door, which naturally strengthened their 
disinclination to go nearer. 

“ If it weren’t for the girl,” said one of them in a scared whisper 
to his neighbour, “I would leave the wizard to the devil and his 
dam.” 

Scarcely had the words left his mouth, when the door opened, 
and out came a form — whether phantom or living woman none 
could tell. Pale, forlorn, lost, and purposeless, it came straight 
towards them, with wide unseeing eyes. They parted in terror 
from its path. It went on, looking to neither hand, and sank 
down the stair. The moment it was beyond their sight, they came 
to themselves and rushed after it ; but although they searched the 
whole house, they could find no creature in it, except a cat of 
questionable appearance and behaviour, which they wisely let 
alone. Returning, they took up a position whence they could 
watch the door of the chamber day and night. 

For three weeks they watched it, but neither cry nor other 
sound reached them. For three weeks more they watched it, and 


i65 


MALCOLM. 


then an evil odour began to assail them, which grew and grew, 
until at length they were satisfied that the wizard was dead. They 
returned therefore to the king and made their report, whereupon 
Lord Gernon was decreed dead, and his heir was enfeoffed. But 
for many years he was said to be still alive ; and indeed whether 
he had ever died in the ordinary sense of the word, was to old 
Eppie doubtful ; for at various times there had arisen whispers of 
peculiar sounds, even strange cries, having been heard issue from 
that room — whispers which had revived in the house in Mrs 
Courthope’s own time. No one had slept in that part of the roof 
within the memory of old Eppie : no one, she believed, had ever 
slept there since the events of her tale; certainly no one had in 
Mrs Courthope’s time. It was said also, that, invariably, sooner 
or later after such cries were heard, some evil befel either the Lord 
of Lossie, or some one of his family. 

“Show me the room, Mrs Courthope, ,, said the marquis, rising, 
as soon as she had ended. 

The housekeeper looked at him with some dismay. 

“What!” said his lordship, “you an Englishwoman and 
superstitious ! ” 

“ I am cautious, my lord, though not a Scotchwoman,” returned 
Mrs Courthope. “ All I would presume to say is — Don’t do it 
without first taking time to think over it.” 

“I will not. But I want to know which room it is.” 

Mrs Courthope led the way, and his lordship followed her to 
the very door, as he had expected, with which Malcolm had spied 
Mrs Catanach tampering. He examined it well, and on the upper 
part of it found what might be the remnants of a sunk inscription, 
so far obliterated as to convey no assurance of what it was. He 
professed himself satisfied, and they went down the stairs together 
again. 


CHAPTER XX VI IL 

A FISHER-WEDDING. 

When the next Saturday came, all the friends of the bride oi 
bridegroom who had “gotten a call” to the wedding of Annie 
Mair and Charley Wilson, assembled respectively at the houses 
of their parents. Malcolm had received an invitation from both, 
and had accepted that of the bride. 

Whisky and oat-cake having been handed round, the bride, a 


A FISHER-WEDDING. 


167 


6hort but comely young woman, set out with her father for the 
church, followed by her friends in couples. At the door of the 
church, which stood on the highest point in the parish, a centre 
of assault for all the winds that blew, they met the bridegroom 
and his party : the bride and he entered the church together, and 
the rest followed. After a brief and somewhat bare ceremony, they 
issued — the bride walking between her brother and the groomsman, 
each taking an arm of the bride, and the company following 
mainly in trios. Thus arranged they walked eastward along the 
highroad, to meet the bride’s first-foot. 

They had gone about half-way to Portlossie, when a gentleman 
appeared, sauntering carelessly towards them, with a cigar in his 
mouth. It was Lord Meikleham. Malcolm was not the only 
one who knew him : Lizzy Findlay, only daughter of the Partan, 
and the prettiest girl in the company, blushed crimson : she had 
danced with him at Lossie House, and he had said things to her, 
by way of polite attention, which he would never have said had 
she been of his own rank. Fie would have lounged past, with a 
careless glance, but the procession halted by one consent, and 
the bride, taking a bottle and glass which her brother carried, 
proceeded to pour out a bumper of whisky, while the groomsman 
addressed Lord Meikleham. 

“ Ye ’re the bride’s first fut, sir,” he said. 

“ What do you mean by that?” asked Lord Meikleham. 

“ Here’s the bride, sir : she’ll tell ye.” 

Lord Meikleham lifted his hat 

“ Allow me to congratulate you,” he said. 

“ Ye ’re my first fut,” returned the bride eagerly yet modestly, 
as she held out to him the glass of whisky. 

“ This is to console me for not being in the bridegroom’s place, 
I presume ; but notwithstanding my jealousy, I drink to the 
health of both,” said the young nobleman, and tossed off the 
liquor. — “ Would you mind explaining to me what you mean by 
this ceremony ?” he added, to cover a slight choking caused by 
the strength of the dram. 

“ It’s for luck, sir,” answered Joseph Mair. “A first fut wha 
wadna bring ill luck upon a new-merried couple, maun aye du as 
ye hae dune this meenute — -tak a dram frae the bride.” 

“ Is that the sole privilege connected with my good fortune ?” 
said Lord Meikleham. “ If I take the bride’s dram, I must join 
the bride’s regiment.— My good fellow,” he went on, approaching 
Malcolm, “ you have more than your share of the best things of 
this world.” 

For Malcolm had two partners, and the one on the side next 


MALCOLM. 


1 68 

Lord Meikleham, who, as he spoke, offered her his arm, was 
Lizzy Findlay. 

“No as shares gang, my lord,” returned Malcolm, tightening 
his arm on Lizzie’s hand. “Ye mauna gang wV ane o’ oor cus- 
toms to gang agane anither. Fisher fowk ’s ready eneuch to pairt 
wi’ their whusky, but no wi’ their lasses ! — Na, haith !” 

Lord Meikleham’s face flushed, and Lizzy looked down, very 
evidently disappointed ; but the bride’s father, a wrinkled and 
brown little man, with a more gentle bearing than most of them, 
interfered. 

“Ye see, my lord — gien it be sae I maun ca’ ye, an’ Ma’colm 
seems to ken — we’re like by oorsel’s for the present, an’ we’re but 
a rouch set o’ fowk for such like ’s yer lordship to haud word o’ 
mou’ wi’ \ but gien it wad please ye to come ower the gait ony 
time i’ the evenin’, an’ tak yer share o’ what’s gauin’, ye sud be 
walcome, an’ we wad coont it a great honour frae sic’s yer 
lordship.” 

“ I shall be most happy,” answered Lord Meikleham ; and 
taking off his hat he went his way. 

The party returned to the home of the bride’s parents. Her 
mother stood at the door with a white handkerchief in one hand, 
and a quartei' of oat-cake in the other. When the bride reached 
the threshold she stood, and her mother, first laying the handker- 
chief on her head, broke the oat-cake into pieces upon it. These 
were distributed among the company, to be carried home and laid 
under their pillows. 

The bridegroom’s party betook themselves co his father’s house, 
where, as well as at old Mair’s, a substantial meal of tea, bread and 
butter, cake, and cheese, was provided. Then followed another 
walk, to allow of both houses being made tidy for the evening’s 
amusements. 

About seven, Lord Meikleham made his appearance, and had 
a hearty welcome. He had bought a showy brooch for the bride, 
which she accepted with the pleasure of a child. In their games, 
which had already commenced, he joined heartily, gaining high 
favour with both men and women. When the great clothes- 
basket full of sweeties , the result of a subscription among the 
young men, was carried round by two of them, he helped himself 
liberally with the rest ; and at the inevitable game of forfeits met 
his awards with unflinching obedience ; contriving ever through 
it all that Lizzy Findlay should feel herself his favourite. In the 
general hilarity, neither the heightened colour of her cheek, nor 
the vivid sparkle in her eyes attracted notice. Doubtless some 
of the girls observed the frequency of his attentions, but it woke 


A FISHER-WEDDING . 169 

nothing in their minds beyond a little envy of her passing good 
fortune. 

Meikleham was handsome and a lord ; Lizzy was pretty though 
a fisherman’s daughter : a sort of Darwinian selection had appa- 
rently found place between them ; but as the same entertainment 
was going on in two houses at once, and there was naturally a 
good deal of passing and repassing between them, no one took 
the least notice of several short absences from the company on 
the part of the pair. 

Supper followed, at which his lordship sat next to Lizzy, and 
partook of dried skate and mustard, bread and cheese, and beer. 
Kvery man helped himself. Lord Meikleham and a few others 
were accommodated with knives and forks, but the most were 
independent of such artificial aids. Whisky came next, and Lord 
Meikleham being already, like many of the young men of his 
time, somewhat fond of strong drink, was not content with such 
sipping as Lizzy honoured his glass withal. 

At length it was time, according to age-long custom, to undress 
the bride and bridegroom and put them to bed — the bride’s 
stocking, last ceremony of all, being thrown amongst the com- 
pany, as by its first contact prophetic of the person to be next 
married. Neither Lizzy nor Lord Meikleham, however, had any 
chance of being thus distinguished, for they were absent and 
unmissed. 

As soon as all was over, Malcolm set out to return home. As 
he passed Joseph Mair’s cottage, he found Phemy waiting for 
him at the door, still in the mild splendour of her pearl-like 
necklace. 

I tellt the laird what ye tellt me to tell him, Malcolm,” she said. 

“ An’ what did he say, Phemy ? ” asked Malcolm. 

“ He said he kent ye was a freen’.” 

u Was that a’?” 

u Ay ; that was a’.* 

“ Weel, yere a guid lassie.” 

“ Ow ! middlin’,” answered the little maiden. 

Malcolm took his way along the top of the cliffs, pausing now 
and then to look around him. The crescent moon had gone 
down, leaving a star-lit night, in which the sea lay softly moaning 
at the foot of the broken crags. The sense of infinitude which 
comes to the soul when it is in harmony with the peace of nature, 
arose and spread itself abroad in Malcolm’s being, and he felt with 
the Galilaeans of old, when they forsook their nets and followed 
him who called them, that catching fish was not the end of his 
being, although it was the woik his hands had found to do. The 


170 


MALCOLM. 


stillness was all the sweeter for its contrast with the merriment 
he had left behind him, and a single breath of wind, like the waft 
from a passing wind, kissed his forehead tenderly, as if to seal the 
truth of his meditations. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

FLORIMEL AND DUNCAN. 

In the course of a fortnight, Lord Meikleham and his aunt, the 
bold-faced countess, had gone, and the marquis, probably finding 
it a little duller in consequence, began to pay visits in the neigh- 
bourhood. Now and then he would be absent for a week or two 
— at Bog o’ Gight, or bluntly Lodge, or Frendraught, or Balvenie, 
and although Lady Florimel had not much of his society, she 
missed him at meals, and felt the place grown dreary from his 
being nowhere within its bounds. 

On his return from one of his longer absences, he began to 
talk to her about a governess ; but, though in a playful way, she 
rebelled utterly at the first mention of such an incubus. She had 
plenty of material for study, she said, in the library, and plenty 
of amusement in wandering about with the sullen Demon, who 
was her constant companion during his absences ; and if he did 
force a governess upon her, she would certainly murder the 
woman, if only for the sake of bringing him into trouble. Her 
easy-going father was amused, laughed, and said nothing more 
on the subject at the time. 

Lady Florimel did not confess that she had begun to feel her 
life monotonous, or mention that she had for some time been 
cultivating the acquaintance of a few of her poor neighbours, and 
finding their odd ways of life and thought and speech interesting. 
She had especially taken a liking to Duncan MacPhail, in which, 
strange to say, Demon, who had hitherto absolutely detested the 
appearance of any one not attired as a lady or gentleman, 
heartily shared. She found the old man so unlike anything she 
had ever heard or read of! — so full of grand notions in such 
contrast with his poor conditions ; so proud yet so overflowing 
with service — dusting a chair for her with his bonnet, yet draw- 
ing himself up like an offended hidalgo if she declined to sit in 
it ! — more than content to play the pipes while others dined, yet 
requiring a personal apology from the marquis himself for a prac' 


" FLORIMEL AND DUNCAN. 


i7i 

treat joke ! so full of kindness and yet of revenges ! — lamenting 
over Demon when he hurt his foot, yet cursing, as she overheard 
him once, in fancied solitude, with an absolute fervour of impre- 
cation, a continuous blast of poetic hate which made her shiver ; 
and the next moment sighing out a most wailful coronach on his 
old pipes ! It was all so odd, so funny, so interesting ! It 
nearly made her aware of human nature as an object of study. 
But lady Florimel had never studied anything yet, had never 
even perceived that anything wanted studying, that is, demanded 
to be understood. What appeared to her most odd, most incon- 
sistent, and was indeed of all his peculiarities alone distasteful to 
her, was his delight in what she regarded only as the menial and 
dirty occupation of cleaning lamps and candlesticks ; the poetic 
side of it, rendered tenfold poetic by his blindness, she never 
saw. 

Then he had such tales to tell her — of mountain, stream, and 
lake ; of love and revenge ; of beings less and more than natural 
— brownie and Boneless, kelpie and fairy ; such wild legends 
also, haunting the dim emergent peaks of mist-swathed Celtic 
history ; such songs — come down, he said, from Ossian himself 
— that sometimes she would sit and listen to him for hours to- 
gether. 

It was no wonder then that she should win the heart of the 
simple old man speedily and utterly ; for what can bard desire 
beyond a true listener — a mind into which his own may, in verse 
or tale or rhapsody, in pibroch or coronach, overflow ? But 
when, one evening, in girlish merriment, she took up his pipes, 
blew the bag full, and began to let a highland air burst fitfully 
from the chanter, the jubilation of the old man broke all the 
bounds of reason. He jumped from his seat and capered about 
the room, calling her all the tenderest and most poetic names 
his English vocabulary would afford him ; then abandoning the 
speech of the Sassenach, as if in despair of ever uttering himself 
through its narrow and rugged channels, overwhelmed her with 
a cataract of soft-flowing Gaelic, returning to English only as his 
excitement passed over into exhaustion — but in neither case 
aware of the transition. 

Her visits were the greater comfort to Duncan, that Malcolm 
was now absent almost every night, and most days a good many 
hours asleep ; had it been otherwise, Florimel, invisible for very 
width as was the gulf between them, could hardly have made 
them so frequent. Before the fishing-season was over, the piper 
had been twenty times on the verge of disclosing every secret in 
his life to the high-born maiden. 


172 


MALCOLM , ; 


“ It’s a pity you haven’t a wife to take care of you, Mr Mac* 
Phail,” she said one evening. “You must be so lonely without 
a woman to look after you ! ” 

A dark cloud came over Duncan’s face, out of which his sight- 
less eyes gleamed. 

“ She’ll haf her poy, and she’ll pe wanting no wife/' he sam 
sullenly. “ Wifes is paad.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Florimel, the teasing spirit of her father upper- 
most for the moment, “ that accounts for your swearing so shock- 
ingly the other day ? ” 

“ Swearing was she ? Tat will pe wrong. And who was she’ll 
pe swearing at ? ” 

“ That’s what I want you to tell me, Mr MacPhail.” 

“ Tid you’ll hear me, my laty ? ” he asked in a tone of reflec- 
tion, as if trying to recall the circumstance. 

“ Indeed I did. You frightened me so that I didn’t dare come 
hi.” 

“Ten she’ll pe punished enough. Put it wass no harm to 
curse ta wicket Cawmill.” 

“ It was not Glenlyon — it wasn’t a man at all ; it was a woman 
you were in such a rage with.” 

“ Was it ta rascal’s wife, ten, my laty ? ” he asked, as if he 
were willing to be guided to the truth that he might satisfy her, 
but so much in the habit of swearing, that he could not well re- 
collect the particular object at a given time. 

“ Is his wife as bad as himself then ? ” 

“ Wifes is aalways worsen” 

“ But what is it makes you hate him so dreadfully ? Is he a 
bad man ? ” 

“ A fery pad man, my tear laty 1 He is tead more than a 
hundert years.” 

“ Then why do you hate him so ? 

“ Och hone ! Ton’t you’ll never hear why ? ” 

“ He can’t have done you any harm.” 

“ Not done old Tuncan any harm ! Tidn’t you’ll know what ta 
tog would pe toing to her aancestors of Glenco ? Och hone ! Och 
hone ! Gif her ta tog’s heart of him in her teeth, and she’ll pe 
tearing it— tearing it — tearing it ! ” cried the piper in a growl of 
hate, and with the look of a maddened tiger, the skin of his face 
drawn so tight over the bones that they seemed to show their 
whiteness through it. 

“You quite terrify me,” said Florimel, really shocked. “If 
you talk like that, I must go away. Such words are not fit for a 
lady to hear.” 


FLO RIM EL AND DUNCAN. 


173 

The old man heard her rise : he fell on his knees, and held 

out his arms in entreaty. 

“ She’s pegging your pardons, my laty. Sit town once more, 
anchel from hefen, and she 11 not say it no more. Put she’ll pe 
telling you ta story, and then you’ll pe knowing tat what ’ll not 
pe fit for laties to hear, as coot laties had to pear ! ” 

He caught up the Lossie pipes, threw them down again, 
searched in a frenzy till he found his own, blew up the bag with 
short thick pants, forced from them a low wail, which ended in a 
scream — then broke into a kind of chant, the words of which 
were something like what follows : he had sense enough to 
remember that for his listener they must be English. Doubt- 
less he was translating as he went on. His chanter all the time 
kept up a low pitiful accompaniment, his voice only giving 
expression to the hate and execration of the song. 

Black rise the hills round the vale of Glenco ; 

Hard rise its rocks up the sides of the sky; 

Cold fall the streams from the snow on their summits; 

Bitter are the winds that search for the wanderer; 

False are the vapours that trail o’er the correi : 

Blacker than caverns that hollow the mountain. 

Harder than crystals in the rock’s bosom, 

Colder than ice borne down in the torrents. 

More bitter than hail wind-swept o’er the correi, , 

Falser than vapours that hide the dark precipice, 

Is the heart of the Campbell, the hell-hound Glenlyoo, 

Is it blood that is streaming down into the valley? 

Ha! ’tis the red -coated blood-hounds of Orange. 

To hunt the red-deer, is this a fit season ? 

Glenlyon, said Ian, the son of the chieftain : 

What seek ye with guns and with gillies so many? 

Friends, a warm fire, good cheer, and a drink. 

Said the liar of hell, with the death in his heart. 

Come home to my house — it is poor, but your own. 

Cheese of the goat, and flesh of black cattle, 

And dew of the mountain to make their hearts joyful, 

They gave them in plenty, they gave them with welcome j 
And they slept on the heather, and skins of the red deer. 

Och hone for the chief ! God’s curse on the traitors! 

Och hone for the chief— the father of his people ! 

He is struck through the brain, and not in the battle I 

Och hone for his lady ! the teeth of the badgers 
Have torn the bright rings from her slender fingers ! 

They have stripped her and shamed her in sight of her clansme®! 

The} have sent out her ghost to cry after her husband. 


MALCOLM i 


174 

Nine men did Glenlyon slay, nine of the true heaits I 
His own host he slew, the laird of Inverriggen. 

Fifty they slew — the rest fled to the mountains. 

In the deep snow the women and childi'en 
Fell down and slept, nor awoke in the morning. 

The bard of the glen, alone among stranger*, 

Allister, bard of the glen and the mountain, 

Sings peace to the ghost of his father’s father, 

Slain by the curse of Glenco, Glenlyon. 

Curse on Glenlyon ! His wife’s fair bosom 
Dry up with weeping the fates of her children ! 

Curse on Glenlyon ! Each drop of his heart’s blood 
Turn to red fire and burn through his arteries ! 

The pale murdered faces haunt him to madness ! 

The shrieks of the ghosts from the mists of Glenco 
Ring in his ears through the caves of perdition ! 

Man, woman, and child, to the last-born Campbell, 

Rush howling to hell, and fall cursing Glenlyon — 

The liar who drank with his host and then slew him ! 

While he chanted, the whole being of the bard seemed to pour 
itself out in the feeble and quavering tones that issued from his 
withered throat. His voice grew in energy for a while as he pro- 
ceeded, but at last gave way utterly under the fervour of impreca- 
tion, and ceased. Then, as if in an agony of foiled hate, he sent 
from chanter and drone a perfect screech of execration, with 
which the instrument dropped from his hands, and he fell back 
in his chair, speechless. 

Lady Florimel started to her feet, and stood trembling for a 
moment, hesitating whether to run from the cottage and call for 
help, or do what she might for the old man herself. But the 
next moment he came to himself, saying, in a tone of assumed 
composure : 

“ You’ll pe knowing now, my laty, why she’ll pe hating ta very 
name of Clenlyon.” 

“ But it was not your grandfather that Glenlyon killed, Mr 
MacPhail — was it?” 

“ And whose grandfather would it pe then, my laty ? ” returned 
Duncan, drawing himself up. 

“ The Glenco people weren’t MacPhails. I’ve read the story 
of the massacre, and know all about that.” 

“ He might haf been her mother’s father, my laty.” 

“ But you said fathers father, in your song.” 

“She said Allister s father’s father, my laty, she pelieves.” 

“ I can’t quite understand you, Mr Macphail ” 


FLORIMEL AND DUNCAN. 


175 


“ Well, you see, my laty, her father was out in the forty-five, 
and fought ta red-coats at Culloden. Tat’s his claymore on ta 
wall there — a coot plade — though she’s not an Andrew Ferrara. 
She wass forched in Clenco, py a cousin of her own, Angus py 
name, and she’s a fery coot plade : she ’ll can well whistle ta 
pibroch of Ian Lorn apout ta ears of ta Sassenach. Her crand- 
father wass with his uncle in ta pattle of Killiecrankie after 
Tundee — a creat man, my laty, and he died there; and so tid 
her crand-uncle, for a fillain of a Mackay, from Lord Reay’s 
cursed country — where they aalways wass repels, my laty — chust 
as her uncle was pe cutting town ta wicket Cheneral Mackay, 
turned him round, without gifmg no warnings, and killed ta poor 
man at won plow.” 

“ But what has it all to do with your name 1 I declare I don’t 
know what to call you.” 

“Call her your own pard, old Tuncan MacPhail, my sweet 
laty, and haf ta patience with her, and she’ll pe telling you aall 
apout eferyting, only you must gif her olt prains time to 
tumple temselfs apout. Her head grows fery stupid. — Yes, as 
she was saying, after ta ploody massacre at Culloden, her father 
had to hide himself away out of sight, and to forge himself — I 
mean to put upon himself a name tat tidn’t mean himself at aal. 
And my poor mother, who pored me — pig old Tuncan — ta fery 
tay of ta pattle, would not be hearing won wort of him for tree 
months tat he was away ; and when he would pe creep pack like a 
fox to see her one fine night when ta moon was not pe up, they’ll 
make up an acreement to co away together for a time, and to call 
temselfs Macphails. But py and py tey took their own nems 
again.” 

“ And why haven’t you your own name now ? I’m sure it’s a 
much prettier name.” 

“ Pecause she’ll pe taking the other, my tear laty.” 

u And why?” 

“Pecause — pecause . She will tell you another time. 

She’ll pe tired to talk more apout ta cursed Cawmills this fery 
tay.” 

“Then Malcolm’s name is not MacPhail either?” 

“No, it is not, my lady.” 

“ Is he your son’s son, or your daughter’s son ?” 

“ Perhaps not, my laty.” 

“ I want to know what his real name is. Is it the same as 
jrours ? It doesn’t seem respectable not to have your own names. 

“ Oh yes, my laty, fery respectable. Many coot men has to 
porrow nems of teir neighpours. We’ve all cot our fery own 


176 


MALCOLM. 


names, only in pad tays, my laty, we ton’t aalways know which 
tey are exactly ; but we aal know which we are each other, and 
we get on fery coot without the names. We lay tern py with 
our Sappath clothes for a few tays, and they come out ta fresher 
and ta sweeter for keeping ta Sappath so long, my laty. And 
now she’ll pe playing you ta coronach of Clenco, which she was 
make herself for her own pipes.” 

“ I want to know first what Malcolm’s real name is,” persisted 
Lady Florimel. 

“Well, you see, my laty,” returned Duncan, “some people has 
names and does not know them ; and some people hasn’t names, 
and will pe supposing they haf.” 

“You are talking riddles, Mr MacPhail, and I don’t like 
riddles,” said Lady Florimel, with an offence which was not al- 
together pretended. 

“ Yes surely — oh, yes ! Call her Tuncan MacPhail, and 
neither more or less, my laty — not yet,” he returned, most 
evasively. 

“ I see you won’t trust me,” said the girl, and rising quickly, 
she bade him good-night, and left the cottage. 

Duncan sat silent for a few minutes, as if in distress : then 
slowly his hand went out feeling for his pipes, wherewithal he 
consoled himself till bed-time. 

Having plumed herself upon her influence with the old man, 
believing she could do anything with him she pleased, Lady 
Florimel was annoyed at failing to get from him any amplification 
of a hint in itself sufficient to cast a glow of romance about the 
youth who had already interested her so much. Duncan also 
was displeased, but with himself, for disappointing one he loved 
so much. With the passion for confidence which love generates, 
he had been for some time desirous of opening his mind to her 
upon the matter in question, and had indeed, on this very occasion, 
intended to lead up to a certain disclosure ; but just at the last 
he clung to his secret, and could not let it go. 

Compelled thereto against the natural impulse of the Celtic 
nature, which is open and confiding, therefore in the reaction 
cunning and suspicious, he had practised reticence so long, tk ut 
he now recoiled from a breach of the habit which had become a 
second, false nature. He felt like one who, having caught a bird, 
holds it in his hand with the full intention of letting it go, but 
cannot make up his mind to do it just yet, knowing that, the 
moment he opens his hand, nothing can make that bird his 
again. 

A whole week passed, during which Lady Florimel did not 


FLO RIM EL AND DUNCAN. 


1 77 


come near him, and the old man was miserable. At length one 
evening, for she chose her time when Malcolm must be in som« 
vague spot between the shore and the horizon, she once more 
entered the piper’s cottage. He knew her step the moment she 
turned the corner from the shore, and she had scarcely set her 
foot across the threshold before he broke out : 

“ Ach, my tear laty ! and tid you’ll think old Tuncan such a 
stoopit old man as not to ’ll pe trusting ta light of her plind eyes? 
Put her laty must forgif her, for it is a long tale, not like anything 
you’ll pe in ta way of peliefing ; and aalso, it’ll pe put ta tassel to 
another long tale which tears ta pag of her heart, and ntakes her 
feel a purning tevil in ta pocket of her posom. Put she’ll tell 
you ta won half of it that pelongs to her poy Malcolm. He ’s a 
pig poy now, put he wasn’t aalways. No. He was once a feiy little 
smaal chylt, in her old plind aarms. Put tey wasn’t old ten. 
Why must young peoples crow old, my laty 1 Put she’ll pe clad 
of it herself, for she’ll can hate ta petter. ” 

Lady Florimel, incapable either of setting forth the advantages 
of growing old, or of enforcing the duty, which is the necessity, 
of forgiveness, answered with some commonplace ; and as, to 
fortify his powers of narration, a sailor would cut himself a quid, 
and a gentleman fill his glass, or light a fresh cigar, Duncan slowly 
filled his bag. After a few strange notes as of a spirit wandering 
in pain, he began his story. But I will tell the tale for him, lest 
the printed oddities of his pronunciation should prove wearisome. 
I must mention first, however, that he did not commence until he 
had secured a promise from Lady Florimel that she would not 
communicate his revelations to Malcolm, having, he said, very 
good reasons for desiring to make them himself, so soon as a 
fitting time should have arrived 

Avoiding all mention of his reasons either for assuming another 
name or for leaving his native glen, he told how, having wandered 
forth with no companion but his bagpipes, and nothing he could 
call his own beyond the garments and weapons which he wore, 
he traversed the shires of Inverness and Nairn and Moray, offering 
at every house on his road, to play the pipes, or clean the lamps 
and candlesticks, and receiving sufficient return, mostly in the 
shape of food and shelter, but partly in money, to bring him all 
the way from Glenco to Portlossie : somewhere near the latter was 
a cave in which his father, after his flight from Culloden had lain 
in hiding for six months, in hunger and cold, and in constant 
peril of discovery and death, all in that region being rebels— for 
as such Duncan of course regarded the adherents of the houses * >{ 
Orange and Hanover ; and having occasion, for reasons, as I have 


i 7 8 


MALCOLM. 


said, unexplained, in his turn to seek, like a hunted stag, a place 
far from his beloved glen, wherein to hide his head, he had set 
out to find the cave, which the memory of his father would render 
far more of a home to him now than any other place left him on 
earth. 

On his arrival at Portlossie, he put up at a small public-house 
in the Seaton, from which he started the next morning to find the 
cave — a somewhat hopeless as well as perilous proceeding ; but 
his father’s description of its situation and character had generated 
such a vivid imagination of it in the mind of the old man, that he 
believed himself able to walk straight into the mouth of it ; nor 
was the peril so great as must at first appear, to one who had been 
blind all his life. But he searched the whole of the east side of 
the promontory of Scaur-nose, where it must lie, without finding 
such a cave as his father had depicted. Again and again he 
fancied he had come upon it, but was speedily convinced of his 
mistake. Even in one who had his eyesight, however, such a 
failure would not surprise those who understand how rapidly as 
well as constantly the whole faces of some cliffs are changing by 
the fall of portions — destroying the very existence of some caves, 
and utterly changing the mouths of others. 

From a desire of secrecy, occasioned by the haunting dread of 
its approaching necessity, day and night being otherwise much 
alike to him, Duncan generally chose the night for his wanderings 
amongst the rocks, and probings of their hollows. 

One night, or rather morning, for he believed it was consider- 
ably past twelve o’clock, he sat weary in a large open cave, 
listening to the sound of the rising tide, and fell fast asleep, his 
bagpipes, without which he never went abroad, across his knees. 
He came to himself with a violent start, for the bag seemed to 
be moving, and its last faint sound of wail was issuing. Heavens ! 
there was a baby lying upon it. — For a time he sat perfectly 
bewildered, but at length concluded that some wandering gipsy 
had made him a too ready gift of the child she did not prize. 
Some one must be near. He called aloud, but there was no 
answer. The child began to cry. He sought to soothe it, and 
its lamentation ceased. The moment that its welcome silence 
responded to his blandishments, the still small “ Here I am” of 
the Eternal Love whispered its presence in the heart of the lonely 
man : something lay in his arms so helpless that to it, poor and 
blind and forsaken of man and woman as he was, he was yet a 
tower of strength. He clasped the child to his bosom, and rising 
forthwith set out, but with warier steps than heretofore, over the 
rocks for the Seaton. 


FLORIMEL AND DUNCAN. 


179 


Already he would have much preferred concealing him lest he 
should be claimed — a thing, in view of all the circumstances, not 
very likely — but for the child’s sake, he must carry him to The 
Salmon, where he had free entrance at any hour — not even the 
public-house locking its doors at night. 

Thither then he bore his prize, shielding him from the night air 
as well as he could, with the bag of his pipes. But he waked none 
of the inmates ; lately fed, the infant slept for several hours, and 
then did his best both to rouse and astonish the neighbourhood. 

Closely questioned, Duncan told the truth, but cunningly, in 
such manner that some disbelieved him altogether, while others, 
who had remarked his haunting of the rocks ever since his arrival, 
concluded that he had brought the child with him and had kept 
him hidden until now. The popular conviction at length settled 
to this, that the child was the piper’s grandson — but base-born, 
whom therefore he was ashamed to acknowledge, although heartily 
willing to minister to and bring up as a foundling. The latter 
part of this conclusion, however, was not alluded to by Duncan 
in his narrative : it was enough to add that he took care to leave 
the former part of it undisturbed. 

The very next day, he found himself attacked by a low fever ; 
but as he had hitherto paid for everything he had at the inn, they 
never thought of turning him out when his money was exhausted; 
and as he had already by his discreet behaviour, and the pleasure 
his bagpipes afforded, made himself not a few friends amongst 
the simple-hearted people of the Seaton, some of the benevolent 
inhabitants of the upper town, Miss Horn in particular, were 
soon interested in his favour, who supplied him with everything 
he required until his recovery. As to the baby, he was gloriously 
provided for ; he had at least a dozen foster-mothers at once — 
no woman in the Seaton who could enter a claim founded on the 
possession of the special faculty required, failing to enter that 
claim — with the result of an amount of jealousy almost incredible. 

Meantime the town-drummer fell sick and died, and Miss 
Horn made a party in favour of Duncan. But for the baby, I 
doubt if he would have had a chance, for he was a stranger and 
interloper; the women, however, with the baby in their fore- 
front, earned the day. Then his opponents retreated behind 
the instrument, and strove hard to get the drum recognised 
as an essential of the office. When Duncan recoiled from 
the drum with indignation, but without losing the support of 
his party, the opposition had the effrontery to propose a bell : 
that he rejected with a vehemence of scorn that had nearly 
ruined his cause ; and, assuming straightway the position of chief 


i8o 


MALCOLM. 


party in the proposed contract, declared that no noise of hi3 
making should be other than the noise of bagpipes; that he 
would rather starve than beat drum or ring bell ; if he served in 
the case, it must be after his own fashion — and so on. Hence it 
was no wonder, some of the bailies being not only small men and 
therefore conceited, but powerful whigs, who despised everything 
highland, and the bagpipes especially, if the affair did for awhile 
seem hopeless. But the more noble-minded of the authorities 
approved of the piper none the less for his independence, a gene- 
rosity partly rooted, it must be confessed, in the amusement 
which the annoyance of their weaker brethren afforded them — • 
whom at last they were happily successful in outvoting, so that 
the bagpipes superseded the drum for a season. 

It may be asked whence it arose that Duncan should now be 
willing to quit his claim to any paternal property in Malcolm, 
confessing that he was none of his blood. 

One source of the change was doubtless the desire of confi- 
dences between himself and Lady Florimel , another, the growing 
conviction, generated it may be by the admiration which is bom 
of love, that the youth had gentle blood in his veins ; and a third, 
that Duncan had now so thoroughly proved the heart of Malcolm 
as to have no fear of any change of fortune ever alienating his 
affections, or causing him to behave otherwise than as his dutiful 
grandson. 

It is not surprising that such a tale should have a considerable 
influence on Lady FlorimePs imagination : out of the scanty facts 
which formed but a second volume, she began at once to con- 
struct both a first and a third. She dreamed of the young fisher- 
man that night, and reflecting in the morning on her intercourse 
with him, recalled sufficient indications in him of superiority to 
his circumstances, noted by her now, however, for the first time, 
to justify her dream : he might indeed well be the last scion of a 
noble family. 

I do not intend the least hint that she began to fall in love 
with him. To balance his good looks, and the nobility, to keener 
eyes yet more evident than to hers, in both his moral and physical 
carriage, the equally undeniable clownishness of his dialect and 
tone had huge weight, while the peculiar straightforwardness of 
his behaviour and address not unfrequently savoured in her eyes 
of rudeness; besides which objectionable things, there was the 
persistent odour of fish about his garments — in itself sufficient to 
prevent such a catastrophe. The sole result of her meditations 
was the resolve to get some amusement out of him by means of a, 
knowledge of his history superior to his own. 


THE REVIVAL. 


181 


CHAPTER XXX 

THE REVIVAL. 

Before the close of the herring-fishing, one of those movements 
of the spiritual waters, which in different forms, and under 
different names, manifest themselves at various intervals of space 
and of time, was in full vortex. It was supposed by the folk of 
Portlossie to have begun in the village of Scaurnose ; but by the 
time it was recognized as existent, no one could tell whence it had 
come, any more than he could predict whither it was going. Of 
its spiritual origin it may be also predicated with confidence that 
its roots lay deeper than human insight could reach, and were far 
more interwoven than human analysis could disentangle. 

One notable fact bearing on its nature was, that it arose amongst 
the people themselves, without the intervention or immediate 
operation of the clergy, who indeed to a man were set against it. 
Hence the flood was at first free from the results of one influence 
most prolific of the pseudo-spiritual, namely, the convulsive efforts 
of men with faith in a certain evil system of theology, to rouse a 
galvanic life by working on the higher feelings through the electric 
sympathies of large assemblages, and the excitement of late hours, 
prolonged prayers and exhortations, and sometimes even direct 
appeal to individuals in public presence. The end of these things 
is death, for the reaction is towards spiritual hardness and a more 
confirmed unbelief : when 'he excitement has died away, those at 
ieast in whom the spiritual faculty is for the time exhausted, pre- 
sume that they have tasted and seen, and found that nothing is 
there. The whole thing is closely allied to the absurdity of those 
who would throw down or who would accept the challenge to test 
the reality of answer to prayer by applying the force of a mul- 
titudinous petition to the will of the supposed divinity — I say 
supposed divinity, because a being whose will could be thus moved 
like a water-wheel could not be in any sense divine. If there 
might be a religious person so foolish and irreverent as to agree 
to such a test — crucial indeed, but in a far other sense than that 
imagined — I would put it to him whether the very sense of 
experiment would not destroy in his mind all faculty of prayer, 
placing him in the position, no more of a son of God, but of one 
who, tempting the Lord his God, may read his rebuke where it 
stands recorded for the ages. 

But where such a movement has originated amongst the people, 


182 


MALCOLM. 


the veiy facts adduced to argue its falsehood from its vulgarity, 
a re to me so many indications on the other side ; for I could ill 
believe in a divine influence which did not take the person such 
as he was ; did not, while giving him power from beyond him, 
leave his individuality uninjured, yea intensify it, subjecting the 
very means of its purification, the spread of the new leaven, to the 
laws of time and growth. To look at the thing from the other 
side, the genuineness of the man’s reception of it will be manifest 
in the meeting of his present conditions with the new thing — in 
the show of results natural to one of his degree of development. 
To hear a rude man utter his experience in the forms of cultiva- 
tion, would be at once to suspect the mere glitter of a reflex, and 
to doubt an illumination from within. I repeat, the genuine 
influence shows itself such in showing that it has laid hold of the 
very man, at the very stage of growth he had reached. The 
dancing of David before the ark, the glow of St. Stephen’s face, 
and the wild gestures and rude songs of miners and fishers and 
negroes, may all be signs of the presence of the same spirit in 
temples various. Children will rush and shout and hollo for the 
same joy which sends others of the family to weep apart. 

Of course the one infallible test as to whether any such move- 
ment is of man without God, or of God within the man, is the 
following life ; only a large space for fluctuation must be allowed 
where a whole world of passions and habits has to be subjected to 
the will of God through the vice-gerency of a human will hardly 
or only just awakened, and as yet unconscious of itself. 

The nearest Joseph Mair could come $0 the origin of the 
present movement was the influence of a certain Stornoway 
fisherman, whom they had brought back with them on their re- 
turn from the coasts of Lewis — a man of Celtic fervour and faith, 
who had agreed to accompany them probably in the hope ot 
serving a set of the bravest and hardest-working men in the world, 
who yet spent a large part of their ease in drinking up the earnings 
of fierce and perilous labour. There were a few amongst them, 
he found, already prepared to receive the word, and to each of 
these he spoke in private. They spoke to one another, then each 
to his friend outside the little circle. Next a few met to pray. 
These drew others in, and at length it was delivered from mouth 
to mouth that on the following Sunday, at a certain early hour 
in the morning, a meeting would be held in the Bailie’s Barn, 
a cave large enough to receive all the grown population of 
Scaurnose. 

The news of this gathering of course reached the Seaton, where 
some were inclined to go and see, others to go and hear ; most of 


THE REVIVAL. 18 3 

even the latter class, however, being at the same time more than 
inclined to mock at the idea of a popular religious assembly. 

Not so Duncan MacPhail, who, notwithstanding the more than 
half pagan character of his ideas, had too much reverence to mock 
at anything in the form of religion, to all the claims of which he 
was even eager to assent : when the duty of forgiveness was 
pressed upon him too hard, he would take his last refuge in ex- 
cepting to the authority of the messenger. He regarded the 
announcement of the meeting with the greater respect that the 
man from Stornoway was a MacLeod, and so of his mothers 
clan. 

It was now the end of August, when the sky is of a paler blue 
in the day time, and greener about the sunset. The air had in it 
a touch of cold, which, like as a faint acid affects a sweet drink, 
only rendered the warmth more pleasant. On the appointed 
morning, the tide was low, and the waves died gently upon the 
sand, seeming to have crept away from the shore to get nearer to 
the sunrise. Duncan was walking along the hard wet sand to- 
wards the promontory, with Mr Graham on one side of him and 
Malcolm on the other. There was no gun to fire this morning ; 
it was Sunday, and all might repose undisturbed : the longer sleep 
in bed, possibly the shorter in church ! 

“ I wish you had your sight but for a moment, Mr MacPhail,” 
said the schoolmaster. “ How this sunrise would make you leap 
for joy.” 

“Ay !” s£id Malcolm, “it wad gar daddy grip till ’s pipes in 
twa hurries.” 

“And what should she’ll pe wanting her pipes for?” asked 
Duncan. 

“ To praise God wi’,” answered Malcolm. 

“ Ay ; ay ; ” murmured Duncan thoughtfully. “ Tey are tat” 

“ What are they ? ” asked Mr Graham gently. 

“ For to praise Cod,” answered Duncan solemnly. 

“ I almost envy you,” returned Mr Graham, “ when I think 
how you will praise God one day. What a glorious waking you 
will have !” 

“ Ten it ’ll pe your opinion, Mr Craham, tat she’ll pe sleep- 
ing her sound sleep, and not pe lying wite awake in her coffin 
all ta time ?” 

“A good deal better than that, Mr MacPhail!” returned the 
schoolmaster cheerily. “ It’s my opinion that you are, as it were, 
asleep now, and that the moment you die, you will feel as if you 
had just woke up, and for the first time in your life. For one 
thing, you will see far better then than any of us do now.” 


1 84 


MALCOLM. 


But poor Duncan could not catch the idea ; his mind was 
filled with a preventing fancy. 

“ Yes ; I know ; at ta tay of chutchment,” he said. “ Put 
what ’ll pe ta use of ketting her eyes open pefore she ’ll pe up ? 
How should she pe seeing with all ta earth apove her — and ta 
cravestone too tat I know my poy Malcolm will pe laying on ta 
top of his old cranfather to keep him waarm, and let peoples pe 
know tat ta plind piper will be lying town pelow wite awake and 
fery uncomfortable ?” 

( Excuse me, Mr MacPhail, but that’s all a mistake,” said Mr 
Graham positively. “ The body is but a sort of shell that we 
cast off when we die, as the corn casts off its husk when it begins 
to grow. The life of the seed comes up out of the earth in a 
new body, as St Paul says, ” 

“ Ten,” interrupted Duncan, “ she’ll be crowing up out of her 
crave like a seed crowing up to pe a com or a parley?” 

The schoolmaster began to despair of ever conveying to the 
piper the idea that the living man is the seed sown, and that 
when the body of this seed dies, then the new body, with the 
man in it, springs alive out of the old one — that the death of the 
one is the birth of the other. Far more enlightened people than 
Duncan never imagine, and would find it hard to believe, that 
the sowing of the seed spoken of might mean something else 
than the burying of the body ; not perceiving what yet surely is 
plain enough, that that would be the sowing of a seed already 
dead, and incapable of giving birth to anything whatever. 

“ No, no,” he said, almost impatiently, “you will never be in 
the grave : it is only your body that will go there, with nothing 
like life about it except the smile the glad soul has left on it. 
The poor body when thus forsaken is so dead that it can’t even 
stop smiling. Get Malcolm to read to you out of the book of 
the Revelation how there were multitudes even then standing 
before the throne. They had died in this world, yet there they 
were, well and happy.” 

“ Oh, yes !” said Duncan, with no small touch of spitefulness 
in his tone, “ — twang-twanging at teir fine colden herps ! She’ll 
not be thinking much of ta herp for a music-maker ! And peoples 
tells her she’ll not pe hafing her pipes tere ! Och hone ! Och 
hone ! — She’ll chust pe lying still and not pe ketting up, and 
when ta work is ofer, and eferypody cone away, shell chust pe 
ketting up, and taking a look apout her, to see if shell pe finding 
a stand o’ pipes that some coot highlandman has peen left pehint 
him when he tied lately.” 

“ You’ll find it rather lonely — won’t you ?” 


THE REVIVAL . 


185 

"Yes; no toubt, for they’ll aal be cone up. Well, she’ll haf 
her pipes; and she could not co where ta pipes was looked 
town upon by all ta creat people — and all ta smaal ones too.” 

They had now reached the foot of the promontory, and turned 
northwards, each of his companions taking an arm of the piper 
to help him over the rocks that lay between them and the mouth 
of the cave, which soon yawned before them like a section of the 
mouth of a great fish. Its floor of smooth rock had been swept 
out clean, and sprinkled with dry sea sand. There were many 
hollows and projections along its sides rudely fit for serving as 
seats, to which had been added a number of forms extemporized 
of planks and thwarts. No one had yet arrived when they 
entered, and they went at once to the further end of the cave, 
that Duncan, who was a little hard of hearing, might be close to 
the speakers. There his companions turned and looked behind 
them : an exclamation, followed by a full glance at each other, 
broke from each. 

The sun, just clearing the end of the opposite promontory, 
shone right into the mouth of the cave, from the midst of a 
tumult of gold, in which all the other colours of his approach 
had been swallowed up. The triumph strode splendent over 
sea and shore, subduing waves and rocks to a path for its mighty 
entrance into that dark cave on the human coast. With his back 
to the light stood Duncan in the bottom of the cave, his white 
hair gleaming argentine, as if his poor blind head were the very 
goal of the heavenly progress. He turned round. 

“ Will it pe a fire ? She feels something warm on her head,” 
he said, rolling his sightless orbs, upon which the splendour 
broke waveless, casting a grim shadow of him on the jagged 
rock behind. 

“ No,” answered Mr Graham ; “ it is the sun you feel. He’s 
just out of his grave.” 

The old man gave a grunt. 

“ I often think,” said the schoolmaster to Malcolm, “ that pos- 
sibly the reason why we are told so little about the world we are 
going to, is, that no description of it would enter our minds any 
more than a description of that sunrise would carry a notion of 
its reality into the mind of your grandfather.” 

“ She’s obleeched to you, Mr Craham !” said the piper with 
offence. “ You take her fery stupid. You’re so proud of your 
eyes, you think a plind man cannot see at aall ! Chm 1” 

Eut the folk began to assemble. By twos and threes, now 
from the one side, now from the other, they came dropping in as 
if out of the rush of the blinding sunshine, till the seats were 


i86 


MALCOLM, . 


nearly filled, while a goodly company gathered about the mouth 
the cave, there to await the arrival of those who had oaUed the 
neeting. Presently MacLeod, a small thin man, with iron-gray 
nair, keen, shrewd features, large head, and brown complexion, 
appeared, and made his way to the further end of the cave, fol- 
lowed by three or four of the men of Scaumose, amongst whom 
walked a pale-faced, consumptive lad, with bowed shoulders and 
eyes on the ground : he it was who, feebly clambering on a ledge 
of rock, proceeded to conduct the worship of the assembly. His 
parents were fisher-people of Scaurnose, who to make a minister 
of him had been half-starving the rest of their family ; but he 
had broken down at length under the hardships of endless work 
and wretched food. From the close of the session in March, he 
had been teaching in Aberdeen until a few days before, when he 
came home, aware that he was dying, and full of a fervour betray- 
ing anxiety concerning himself rather than indicating the pos- 
session of good news for others. The sun had now so far 
changed his position, that, although he still shone into the cave, 
the preacher stood in the shadow, out of which gleamed his 
wasted countenance, pallid and sombre and solemn, as first he 
poured forth an abject prayer for mercy, conceived in the spirit 
of a slave supplicating the indulgence of a hard master, and 
couched in words and tones that bore not a trace of the filial ; 
then read the chapter containing the curses of Mount Ebal, and 
gave the congregation one of Duncan’s favourite psalms to sing ; 
and at length began a sermon on what he called the divine jus- 
tice. Not one word was there in it, however, concerning God’s 
love of fair dealing, either as betwixt himself and man, or as be- 
twixt man and his fellow ; the preacher’s whole notion of justice 
was the punishment of sin ; and that punishment was hell, and 
hell only ; so that the whole sermon was about hell from beginning 
to end — hell appalling, lurid, hopeless. And the eyes of all were 
fixed upon him with that glow from within which manifests the 
listening spirit Some of the women were as pale as himself 
from sympathetic horror, doubtless also from a vague stirring of the 
conscience, which, without accusing them of crime, yet told them 
that all was not right between them and their God ; while the 
working of the faces of some of the men betrayed a mind not at 
all at ease concerning their prospects. It was an eloquent and 
powerful utterance, and might doubtless claim its place in the 
economy of human education ; but it was at best a pagan embodi- 
ment of truths such as a righteous pagan might have discovered, 
and breathed nothing of the spirit of Christianity, being as unjust 
♦owards God as it represented him to be towards men : the God 


THE REVIVAL. 


187 


of the preacher was utterly unlike the father of Jesus. Urging 
his hearers to flee from the wrath to come, he drew such a picture 
of an angry Deity as in nothing resembled the revelation in the 
Son. 

“ Fellow sinners,” he said in conclusion, “ haste ye and flee 
from the wrath to come. Now is God waiting to be gracious — 
but only so long as his Son holds back the indignation ready to 
burst forth and devour you. He sprinkles its flames with the 
scarlet wool and the hyssop of atonement ; he stands between 
you and justice, and pleads with his incensed Father for his 
rebellious creatures. Well for you that he so stands and so pleads 1 
Yet even he could not prevail for ever against such righteous 
anger ; and it is but for a season he will thus entreat ; the day 
will come when he will stand aside and let the fiery furnace 
break forth and slay you. Then, with howling and anguish, with 
weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth, ye shall know that 
God is a God of justice, that his wrath is one with his omnipo- 
tence, and his hate everlasting as the fires of hell. But do as ye 
will, ye cannot thwart his decrees, for to whom he will he showeth 
me.rcy, and whom he will he hardeneth.” 

Scarcely had he ceased, when a loud cry, clear and keen, rang 
through every corner of the cave. Well might the preacher start 
and gaze around him ! for the cry was articulate, sharply modelled 
into the three words — “ Father o’ lichts !” Some of the men gave 
a scared groan, and some of the women shrieked. None could 
tell whence the cry had come, and Malcolm alone could guess 
who must have uttered it. 

“ Yes,” said the preacher, recovering himself, and replying to 
the voice, “ he is the Father of lights, but only to them that are 
in Christ Jesus ; — he is no father, but an avenging deity, to them 
over whom the robe of his imputed righteousness is not cast. 
Jesus Christ himself will not be gracious tor ever. Kiss ye the 
Son, lest even he be angry, and ye perish from the way, when his 
wrath is kindled but a little.” 

“Father o’ lichts!” rang the cry again, and louder than 
before. 

To Malcolm it seemed close behind him, but he had the self- 
possession not to turn his head. The preacher took no farther 
notice. MacLeod stood up, and having, in a few simple remarks, 
attempted to smooth some of the asperities of the youth’s address, 
announced another meeting in the evening, and dismissed the 
assembly with a prayer. 

Malcolm went home with his grandfather. He was certain it 
was the laird’s voice he had heard, but he would attempt no search 


MALCOLM. 


1 88 

after his refuge that day, for dread of leading to its discovery by 

others. 

That evening most of the boats of the Seaton set out for the 
fishing ground as usual, but not many went from Scaurnose. Blue 
Peter would go no more of a Sunday, hence Malcolm was free for 
the night, and again with his grandfather walked along the sands 
in the evening towards the cave. 

The sun was going down on the other side of the promontory 
before them, and the sky was gorgeous in rose and blue, in peach 
and violet, in purple and green, barred and fretted, heaped and 
broken, scattered and massed — every colour edged and tinged 
and harmonized with a glory as of gold, molten with heat, and 
glowing with fire. The thought that his grandfather could not see, 
and had never seen such splendour, made Malcolm sad, and very 
little was spoken between them as they went. 

When they arrived, the service had already commenced, but 
room was made for them to pass, and a seat was found ior Duncan 
where he could hear. Just as they entered, Malcolm spied, 
amongst those who preferred the open air at the mouth of the 
cavern, a face which he was all but certain was that of one of the 
three men from whom he had rescued the laird. 

MacLeod was to address them. He took for his text the words 
of the Saviour, “ Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy 
laden, and I will give you rest,” and founded upon them a simple, 
gracious, and all but eloquent discourse, very different in tone 
and influence from that of the young student. It must be con- 
fessed that the Christ he presented was very far off, and wrapped 
in a hazy nimbus of abstraction ; that the toil of his revelation 
was forgotten, the life he lived being only alluded to, and that not 
for the sake of showing what he was, and hence what God is, but 
to illustrate the conclusions of men concerning him ; and yet 
there was that heart of reality in the whole thing which no moral 
vulgarity of theory, no injustice towards God, no tyranny of stupid 
logic over childlike intuitions, could so obscure as to render it 
inoperative. From the form of the Son of Man, thus beheld from 
afar, came a warmth like the warmth from the first approach of 
the far-off sun in spring, sufficing to rouse the earth from the sleep 
of winter — in which all the time the same sun has been its warmth 
and has kept it from sleeping unto death. 

MacLeod was a thinker — aware of the movements of his own 
heart, and able to reflect on others the movements of their hearts ; 
hence, although in the main he treated the weariness and 
oppression from which Jesus offered to set them free, as arising 
from a sense of guilt and the fear of coming misery, he could not 


THE REVIVAL. 


1S9 

help alluding to more ordinary troubles, and depicting other phases 
of the heart’s restlessness with such truth and sympathy that many 
listened with a vague feeling of exposure to a supernatural insight. 
The sermon soon began to show its influence ; for a sense of the 
need of help is so present to every simple mind, that, of ail 
messages, the offer of help is of easiest reception ; some of the 
women were sobbing, and the silent tears were flowing down the 
faces of others ; while of the men many were looking grave and 
thoughtful, and kept their eyes fixed on the speaker. At length, 
towards the close, MacLeod judged it needful to give a word of 
warning. 

“ But, my friends,” he said, and his voice grew low and solemn, 
“ I dare not make an end without reminding you that, if you stop 
your ears against the gracious call, a day will come when not even 
the merits of the Son of God will avail you, but the wrath of 
the ” 

“ Father o' lichts 1 n once more burst ringing out, like the 
sudden cry of a trumpet in the night. 

MacLeod took no notice of it, but brought his sermon at once 
to a close, and specified the night of the following Saturday for 
next meeting. They sung a psalm, and after a slow, solemn, 
thoughtful prayer, the congregation dispersed. 

But Malcolm, who, anxious because of the face he had seen as 
he entered, had been laying his plans, after begging his grand- 
father in a whisper to go home without him for a reason he would 
afterwards explain, withdrew into a recess whence he could watch 
the cave, without being readily discovered. 

Scarcely had the last voices of the retreating congregation died 
away, when the same ill-favoured face peeped round the corner of 
the entrance, gave a quick glance about, and the man came in. 
Like a snuffing terrier, he went peering in the dimness into every 
hollow, and behind every projection, until he suddenly caught 
sight of Malcolm, probably by a glimmering of his eyes. 

“ Hillo, Humpy!” he cried in a tone of exultation, and sprang 
up the rough ascent of a step or two to where he sat. 

Malcolm half rose, and met him with a well-delivered blow be- 
tween the eyes. He fell, and lay for a moment stunned. 
Malcolm sat down again and watched him. When he came to 
himself, he crept out, muttering imprecations. He knew it was 
not Humpy who dealt that blow. 

As soon as he was gone, Malcolm in his turn began searching. 
He thought he knew every hole and corner of the cave, ard there 
was but one where the laird, who, for as near him as he heard his 
voice the first time, certainly had not formed one of the visible 


190 


MALCOLM. 


congregation, might have concealed himself : If was his 
covert, there he must be still, for he had assuredly not issued 
from it. 

Immediately behind where he had sat in the **,<vning, was a 
projection of rock, with a narrow cleft between it unJ the wall of 
the cavern, visible only from the very back of the czve, where the 
roof came down low. But when he thought of it, he saw that even 
here he could not have been hidden in the fti’l light of the 
morning from the eyes of some urchins who had seated themselves 
as far back as the roof would allow them, ami they had never 
looked as if they saw anything more than othr c people. Still, if 
he was to search at all, here he must begii. The cleft had 
scarcely more width than sufficed to admit his oody, and his hands 
told him at once that there was no laird the e. Could tl-er* be 
any opening further? If there was, it could only be »r*newlmre 
above. Was advance in that direction pos? ible ? 

He felt about, and finding two or three footholds, began 
to climb in the dark, and had reached the heigh* jf six feet o r 
so, when he came to a horizontal projection, whicl for a moment 
only, barred his further progress. Having literal y surmounted 
this, that is, got on the top of it, he found there a narrow vertical 
opening : was it but a shallow recess, or did it lead into the heart 
of the rock ? 

Carefully feeling his way both with hands and feet, he advanced 
a step or two, and came to a place w r here the passage widened a 
little, and then took a sharp turn and became so narrow that it 
was with difficulty he forced himself through It was, however, 
but one close pinch, and he found himself, av. his feet told him, 
at the top of a steep descent. He stood foi a moment hesitat- 
ing, for prudence demanded a light. The sound of the sea was 
behind him, but all in front was still as the darkness of the grave. 
Suddenly up from unknown depths of gloom, came the tones of 
a sweet childish voice, singing — The Lord's my Shepherd. 

Malcolm waited until the psalm was finished, and then called 
out : 

“ Mr Stewart ! I’m here — Malcolm MacPhail. I want to see 
ye. Tell him it’s me, Phemy.” 

A brief pause followed ; then Phemy’ s voice answered : 

“ Come awa’ doon. He says ye s’ be welcome.” 

“ Canna ye shaw a licht than ; for I dinna ken a fit o’ the 
ro’d,” said Malcolm. 

The next moment a light appeared at some little distance 
below, and presently began to ascend, borne by Phemy, towards 
the place where he stood. She took him by the land without a 


THE REVIVAL. 


191 


Word, and led him down a slope, apparently formed of material 
fallen from the roof, to the cave already described. The moment 
he entered it, he marked the water in its side, the smooth floor, 
the walls hollowed into a thousand fantastic cavities, and knew 
he had come upon the cave in which his great-grandfather had 
found refuge so many years before. Changes in its mouth had 
rendered entrance difficult, and it had slipped by degrees from 
the knowledge of men. 

At the bottom of the slope, by the side of the well, sat the 
laird. Phemy set the little lantern she carried on its edge. The 
laird rose and shook hands with Malcolm, and asked him to be 
seated. 

“ I’m sorry to say they’re efter ye again, laird,” said Malcolm 
after a little ordinary chat 

Mr Stewart was on his feet instantly. 

“ I maun awa’. Tak care o’ Phemy,” he said hurriedly. 

“ Na, na, sir,” said Malcolm, laying his hand on his arm ; 
“ there’s nae sic hurry. As lang’s I’m here ye may sit still ; an’, 
as far’s I ken, naebody’s fun’ the w’y in but mysel’, an’ that was 
yer ain wyte (blame), laird. But ye hae garred mair fowk nor me 
luik, an’ that’s the pity o’ ’t.” 

“ I tauld ye, sir, ye sudna cry oot,” said Phemy. 

“ I couldna help it,” said Stewart apologetically. 

“ Weel, ye sudna ha’ gane near them again,” persisted the 
little woman. 

“ Wha kent but they kent whaur I cam frae?” also persisted 
the laird. 

“ Sit ye doon, sir, an* lat’s hae a word aboot it,” said Malcolm 
cheerily. 

The laird cast a doubting look at Phemy. 

“ Ay, sit doon,” said Phemy. 

Mr Stewart yielded, but nervous starts and sudden twitches of 
the muscles betrayed his uneasiness : it looked as if his body 
would jump up and run without his mind’s consent 

“ Hae ye ony w’y o’ winnin’ oot o’ this, forbye (besides) the 
mou’ o’ the cave there?” asked Malcolm. 

“ Nane ’at I ken o’,” answered Phemy. “ But there’s heaps 
o’ hidy-holes i’ the inside o’ ’t.” 

“ That’s a ’ very weel ; but gien they keepit the mou’ an’ took 
their time till ’t, they bude to grip ye.” 

“ There may be, though,” resumed Phemy. “ It gangs back a 
lang road. I hae never been in sicht o’ the end o’ ’t. It comes 
doon verra laich in some places, and gangs up heich again in 
ithers, but nae sian o’ an en’ till ’t.” 


192 


MALCOLM. 


“ Is there ony soon* o’ watter intill ’t?” asked Malcolm. 

“ Na, nane at ever I hard. But I’ll tell ye what I hae hard : I 
hae hard the flails gaein’ thud, thud, abune my held.” 

“ Hoot toot, Phemy !” said Malcolm ; “ we’re a guid mile 
an’ a half frae the nearest ferm-toon, an’ that I reckon, ’ll be the 
Hoose-ferm.” 

“ I canna help that,” persisted Phemy. “ Gien ’t wasna the 
flails, whiles ane, an’ whiles twa, I dinna ken what it cud hae 
been. Hoo far it was I canna say, for it’s ill measurin’ i’ the 
dark, or wi’ naething but a bowat ( lantern ) i’ yer han’ ; but gien 
ye ca’d it mair, I wadna won’er.” 

“ It’s a michty howkin ! ” said Malcolm ; “ but for a ’ that it 
wadna haud ye frae the grip o’ thae scoonrels : wharever ye ran 
they cud rin efter ye.” 

“ I think we cud sort them,” said Phemy. “ There’s ae place, 
a guid bit farrer in, whaur the rufe comes doon to the flure, 
leavin’ jist ae sma’ hole to creep throu’ : it wad be fine to hae a 
gey muckle stane handy, jist to row (roll) athort it, an’ gar’t luik 
as gien ’t was the en’ o’ a’thing. But the hole’s sae sma’ at the 
laird has ill gettin’ his puir back throu’ ’t.” 

“ I couldna help won’erin’ hoo he wan throu’ at the tap there,” 
said Malcolm. 

At this the laird laughed almost merrily, and rising, took Mal- 
colm by the hand and led him to the spot, where he made him 
feel a rough groove in the wall of the rocky strait : into this hol- 
low he laid his hump, and so slid sideways through. 

Malcolm squeezed himself through after him, saying, — 

“ Noo ye’re oot, laird, hadna ye better come wi’ me hame to 
Miss Horn’s, whaur ye wad be as safe’s gien ye war in h’aven 
its el’?” 

“ Na, I canna gang to Miss Horn’s,” he replied. 

“ What for no, laird ?” 

Pulling Malcolm down towards him, the laird whisjiered in his 
ear, 

" ’Cause she’s fleyt at my back.” 

A moment or two passed ere Malcolm could think of a reply 
both true and fitting. When at length he spoke again there was 
no answer, and he knew that he was alone. 

He left the cave and set out for the Seaton ; but, unable to 
feel at peace about his friends, resolved, on the way, to return 
after seeing his grandfather, and spend the night in the outer 
cave. 


wandering stars. 


193 


CHAPTER X X X L 

WANDERING STARS. 

He had not been gone many minutes, when the laird passed once 
more through the strait, and stood a moment waiting for Phemy ; 
she had persuaded him to go home to her father’s for the night. 
But the next instant he darted back, with trembling hands, caught 
hold of Phemy, who was following him with the lantern, and 
stammered in her ear, — 

“There’s somebody there 1 I dinna ken whaur they come 
frae.” 

Phemy went to the front of the passage and listened, but Gould 
hear nothing, and returned. 

“ Bide ye whaur ye are, laird,” she said ; “ I’ll gang doon, an’ 
gien I hear or see naething, I’ll come back for ye.” 

With careful descent, placing her feet on the well-known points 
unerringly, she reached the bottom, and peeped into the outer 
cave. The place was quite dark. Through its jaws the sea 
glimmered faint in the low light that skirted the northern 
horizon ; and the slow pulse of the tide upon the rocks, was the 
sole sound to be heard. No : another in the cave close beside 
her ! — one small solitary noise, as of shingle yielding under the 
pressure of a standing foot ! She held her breath and listened, 
her heart beating so loud that she feared it would deafen her to 
what would come next. A good many minutes, half an hour it 
seemed to her, passed, during which she heard nothing more ; 
but as she peeped out for the twentieth time, a figure glided into 
the field of vision bounded by the cave’s mouth. It was that of 
a dumpy woman. She entered the cave, tumbled over one of 
the forms, and gave a cry coupled with an imprecation. 

“ The deevil roast them ’at laid me sic a trap !” she said. “ I 
hae broken the shins the auld markis laudit ! ” 

“ Hold your wicked tongue 1 ” hissed a voice in return, almost 
in Phemy ’s very ear. 

“Ow! ye ’re there, are ye, mem!” rejoined the other, in a 
voice that held internal communication with her wounded shins. 
“ Coupit ye the crans like me ? ” 

The question, Englished, was, “Did you fall heels overhead 
like me?” but was capable of a metaphorical interpretation as 
well. 

“ Hold your tongue, I say, woman ! Who knows but some of 
the saints may be at their prayers within hearing ? ” 

N 


194 


MALCOLM. 


“ Na, na, mem, there’s nae risk o’ that ; this is no ane o’ ver 
creepy caves whaur otters an wullcats hae their habitations ; it’s 
a muckle open-mou’d place, like them ’at prays intill ’t — as toom 
an’ clear-sidit as a tongueless bell. But what for ye wad hae ’s 
come here to oor cracks ( co?iversatlon) y I canna faddom. A body 
wad think ye had an ill thoucht i’ yer heid — eh, mem?” 

The suggestion was followed by a low, almost sneering laugh. 
As she spoke, the sounds of her voice and step had been advanc- 
ing, with cautious intermittent approach. 

“ I hae ye noo,” she said, as she seated herself at length beside 
the other. “ The gowk, Geordie Bray ! ” she went on, “ — to 
tak it intill’s oogly heid ’at the cratur wad be hurklin’ here! It’s 
no the place for ane ’at has to hide ’s heid for verra shame o’ 
slippin’ aff the likes o’ himsel’ upo’ sic a braw mither 1 Could he 
get nae ither door to win in at, haith ! ” 

“ Woman, you ’ll drive me mad ! ” said the other. 

“ Weel, hinney,” returned the former, suddenly changing her 
tone, “ I’m mair an’ mair convenced ’at yon’s the verra laad for 
yer purpose. For ae thing, ye see, naebody kens whaur he cam 
frae, as the laird, bonny laad, wad say, an’ naebody can contra- 
dick a word— the auld man less than onybody, for I can tell him 
what he kens to be trowth. Onlv I winna muv till I ken whaur 
he comes frae.” 

“Wouldn’t you prefer not knowing for certain? You could 
swear with the better grace.” 

“ Deil a bit ! It maitters na to me whilk side o’ my teeth I 
chow wi’. But I winna sweir till I ken the trowth — ’at I may 
haud off o’ ’t. He’s the man, though, gien we can get a grip o’ 
’m ! He luiks the richt thing, ye see, mem. He has a glisk 
( slight look) o’ the markis tu — divna ye think, mem ? ” 

“ Insolent wretch ! ” 

“ Caw canny, mem. A’ thing maun be considered. It wad 
but gar the thing luik the mair likly. Fowk gangs the len’th o’ 
sayin’ ’at Humpy himsel’ ’s no the sin (son) o’ the auld laird, 
honest man ! ” 

“ It’s a wicked lie,” burst with indignation from the other. 

“ There may be waur things nor a bit lee. Ony gait, ae thing’s 
easy priven : ye lay verra dowie (poorly) for a month or sax ooks 
ance upon a time at Lossie Hoose, an’ that was a feow years, we 
needna speir hoo mony, efter ye was lichtened o’ the tither. 
Whan they hear that at that time ye gae birth till a lad-bairn, the 
whilk was stown awa’, an’ never hard tell o’ till noo — ‘ It may 
weel be,’ fowk’ll say : ‘ them ’at has drunk wad drink again ! ’ It 
wad affoord rizzons, ye see, an’ guid anes, for the bairn bein’ 


WANDERING STARS.' 


*95 


putten oot o' sicht, and wad mak the haill story mair nor likly i’ 
the jeedgment o’ a’ ’at hard it.” 

“You scandalous woman ! That would be to confess to all the 
world that he was not the son of my late husband ! ” 

“ They say that o’ him ’at is, an’ hoo muckle the waur are ye ? 
Lat them say ’at they like, sae lang ’s we can shaw ’at he cam o’ 
your body, an’ was bom i’ wedlock ? Ye hae yer Ian’s ance mair, 
for ye hae a sin ’at can guide them — and ye can guide him. 
He’s a bonny lad — bonny eneuch to be yer leddyship’s — and his 
lordship’s : an’ sae, as I was remarkin’, i’ the jeedgment o’ ill- 
thouchtit fowk, the mair likly to be heir to auld Stewart o’ Kirk- 
byres ! ” 

She laughed huskily. 

“ But I maun hae a scart o’ yer pen, mem, afore I wag tongue 
aboot it,” she went on. “ I ken bravvly hoo to set it gauin’ ! I 
sanna be the first to ring the bell. Na, na ; I s’ set Miss Horn’s 
Jean jawin’, an’ it ’ll be a’ ower the toon in a jiffy — at first in a 
kin o’ a sough ’at naebody ’ill unnerstan’ : but it ’ll grow looder 
an’ plainer. At the lang last it ’ll come to yer leddyship’s 
hearin : an’ syne ye hae me taen up an’ questoned afore a justice 
o’ the peace, that there may be no luik o’ ony compack atween 
the twa o’ ’s. But, as I said afore, I’ll no muv till I ken a’ aboot 
the lad first, an’ syne get a scart o’ yer pen, mem.” 

“ You must be the devil himself 1” said the other, in a tone 
that was not of displeasure. 

“ I hae been tellt that afore, an’ wi’ less rizzon,” was the reply 
— given also in a tone that was not of displeasure. 

“ But what if we should be found out ? ” 

“Ye can lay ’t a’ upo’ me.” 

“ And what will you do with it ? ” 

“ Tak it wi’ me,” was the answer, accompanied by another 
husky laugh. 

“ Where to ? ” 

“ Speir nae questons, an’ ye’ll be tellt nae lees. Ony gait, I s’ 
lea’ nae track ahin’ me. An’ for that same sake, I maun hae my 
pairt i’ my han’ the meenute the thing's been sworn till. Gien ye 
fail me, ye’ll sune see me get mair licht upo’ the subjec’, an’ con- 
fess till a great mistak. By the Michty, but I’ll sweir the verra 
contrar the neist time I’m hed up ! Ay, an’ ilka body ’ill believe 
me. An’ whaur’ll ye be than, my leddy ? For though /micht 
mistak, ye cudna ! Faith ! they’ll hae ye ta’en up for perjury.” 

“ You’re a dangerous accomplice,” said the lady. 

“ I’m a tule ye maun tak by the han’le, or ye’ll rue the edge/ 1 
returned the other quietly. 


196 


MALCOLM ; 


“ As soon then as I get a hold of that misbegotten elf * 

" Mean ye the yoong laird, or the yoong markis, mem?” 

“ You forget, Mrs Catanach, that you are speaking to a lady A 

“Ye maun hae been unco like ane ae nicht, ony gait, mem. 
But I’m dune wi’ my jokin’.” 

“ As soon, I say, as I get my poor boy into proper hands, I 
shall be ready to take the next step.” 

“ What for sud ye pit it aff till than ? He canna du muckle ae 
w’y or ither.” 

“ I will tell you. His uncle, Sir Joseph, prides himself on 
being an honest man, and if some busy-body were to tell him 
that poor Stephen, as I am told people are saying, was no worse 
than harsh treatment had made him — for you know his father 
could not bear the sight of him till the day of his death — he 
would be the more determined to assert his guardianship, and 
keep things out of my hands. But if I once had the poor fellow 
in an asylum, or in my own keeping — you see — ” 

“ Weel, mem, gien I be potty, ye’re panny!” exclaimed the 
midwife with her gelatinous laugh. “ Losh, mem !” she burst 
out after a moment’s pause, “ gien you an’ me was to fa’ oot, 
there wad be a stramash ! He ! he ! he ! ” 

They rose and left the cave together, talking as they went ; 
and Phemy, trembling all over, rejoined the laird. 

She could understand little of what she had heard, and yet, 
enabled by her affection, retained in her mind a good deal of it 
After events brought more of it to her recollection, and what I 
have here given is an attempted restoration of the broken mosaic. 
She rightly judged it better to repeat nothing of what she had 
overheard to the laird, to whom it would only redouble terror ; 
and when he questioned her in his own way concerning it, she 
had little difficulty, so entirely did he trust her in satisfying him 
with a very small amount of information. When they reached 
her home, she told all she could to her father; whose opinion it 
was, that the best, indeed the only thing they could do, was to 
keep, if possible, a yet more vigilant guard over the laird and his 
liberty. 

Soon after they were gone, Malcolm returned, and little think- 
ing that there was no one left to guard, chose a sheltered spot in 
the cave, carried thither a quantity of dry sand, and lay down to 
sleep, covered with his tarpaulin coat. He found it something 
chilly, however, and did not rest so well but that he woke with 
the first break of day. 

The morning, as it drew slowly on, was a strange contrast, in 
its gray and saffron, to the gorgeous sunset of the night before. 


WANDERING STARS. 


197 


The sea crept up on the land as if it were weary, and did not 
care much to flow any more. Not a breath of wind was in 
motion, and yet the air even on the shore seemed full of the 
presence of decaying leaves and damp earth. He sat down in 
the mouth of the cave, and looked out on the still, half-waking 
world of ocean and sky before him — a leaden ocean, and a dull 
misty sky ; and as he gazed, a sadness came stealing over him, 
and a sense of the endlessness of labour — labour ever returning 
on itself and making no progress. The mad laird was always 
lamenting his ignorance of his origin : Malcolm thought he knew 
whence he came — and yet what was the much good of life? 
Where was the end to it all ? People so seldom got what they 
desired ! To be sure his life was a happy one, or had been — but 
there was the poor laird ! Why should he be happier than the 
laird ? Why should the laird have a hump and he have none ? 
If all the world were happy but one man, that one’s misery would 
be as a cairn on which the countless multitudes of the blessed 
must heap the stones of endless questions and enduring per- 
plexities. 

It is one thing to know from whom we come, and another to 
know from whom we come. 

Then his thoughts turned to Lady Florimel. All the splen- 
dours of existence radiated from her, but to the glory he could 
never draw nearer ; the celestial fires of the rainbow fountain of 
her life could never warm him ; she cared about nothing he 
cared about ; if they had a common humanity they could not 
share it ; to her he was hardly human. If he were to unfold 
before her the deepest layers of his thought, she would look at 
them curiously, as she might watch the doings of an ant or a 
spider. Had he no right to look for more ? He did not know, 
and sat brooding with bowed head. 

Unseen from where he sat, the sun drew nearer the horizon ; 
the light grew ; the tide began to ripple up more diligently ; a 
glimmer of dawn touched even the brown rock in the farthest end 
of the cave. 

Where there was light there was work, and where there was 
work for any one, there was at least justification of his existence. 
That work must be done, if it should return and return in a never 
broken circle. Its theory could wait. For indeed the only hope 
of finding the theory of all theories, the divine idea, lay in the 
going on of things. 

In the meantime, while God took care of the sparrows by 
himself, he allowed Malcolm a share in the protection of a 
human heart capable of the keenest suffering — that of the mad laird. 


MALCOLM. 


198 


CHAPTER XXXIL 

THE SKIPPER’S CHAMBER. 

One day towards the close of the fishing-season, the marquis 
called upon Duncan, and was received with a cordial unembar- 
rassed welcome. 

“ I want you, Mr MacPhail,” said his lordship, “ to come and 
live in that little cottage, on the banks of the burn, which one of 
the under game-keepers, they tell me, used to occupy. I 'll 
have it put in order for you, and you shall live rent-free as my 
piper.” 

“ I thank your lortship’s crace,” said Duncan, “ and she would 
pe proud of ta honour, put it ’ll pe too far away from ta shore for 
her poy’s fishing.” 

“ I have a design upon him too,” returned the marquis. 
“They’re building a little yacht for me — a pleasure-boat, you 
understand — at Aberdeen, and I want Malcolm to be skipper. 
But he is such a useful fellow, and so thoroughly to be depended 
upon, that I should prefer his having a room in the house. I 
should like to know he was within call any moment I might want 
him.” 

Duncan did not clutch at the proposal. He was silent so long 
that the marquis spoke again. 

‘ 4 You do not quite seem to like the plan, Mr MacPhail,” he 
said. 

“ If aai wass here as it used to wass in ta Highlants, my lort,” 
said Duncan, “ when every clansman wass son or prother or father 
to his chief, tat would pe tifferent ; put my poy must not co and 
eat with serfants who haf nothing put teir waches to make tern 
love and opey your lortship. If her poy serfs another man, it 
must pe pecause he loves him, and looks upon him as his chief, 
who will shake haands with him and take ta father’s care of him ; 
and her poy must tie for him when ta time comes.” 

Even a feudal lord cannot be expected to have sympathized with 
such grand patriarchal ideas ; they were much too like those of 
the kingdom of heaven ; and feudalism itself had by this time 
crumbled away — not indeed into monthly, but into half-yearly 
wages. The marquis, notwithstanding, was touched by the old 
man’s words, matter-of-fact as his reply must sound after them. 

“ I would make any arrangements you or he might wish,” he 
said. 44 He should take his meals with Mrs Courthope, have a 
bedroom to himself, and be required only to look after the yacht, 


THE SKIPPER'S CHAMBER.' 


199 


ana now and then do some bit of business I could n’t trust any 

one else with.” 

The highlander’s pride was nearly satisfied. 

“ So,” he said, “ it ’ll pe his own henchman my lort will pe 
making of her poy ?” 

“ Something like that. We ’ll see how it goes. If he does 
n’t like it, he can drop it. It ’s more that I want to have him 
about me than anything else. I want to do something for him 
when I have a chance. I like him.” 

“ My lort will pe toing ta laad a creat honour,” said Duncan. 
u Put,” he added, with a sigh, “ she ’ll pe lonely, her nainsel ! ” 

“ He can come and see you twenty times a day — and stop all 
night when you particularly want him. We ’ll see about some 
respectable woman to look after the house for you.” 

“ She ’ll haf no womans to look after her,” said Duncan fiercely. 

“ Oh, very well ! — of course not, if you don’t wish it,” returned 
the marquis, laughing. 

But Duncan did not even smile in return. He sat thoughtful 
and silent for a moment, then said : 

“ And what ’ll pecome of her lamps and her shop ?” 

“You shall have all the lamps and candlesticks in the house to 
attend to and take charge of,” said the marquis, who had heard 
of the old man’s whim from Lady Floriinel ; “ and for the shop, 
you won’t want that when you’re piper to the Marquis of 
Lossie.” 

Pie did not venture to allude to wages more definitely. 

“ Well, she’ll pe talking to her poy apout it,” said Duncan, and 
the marquis saw that he had better press the matter no further 
for the time. 

To Malcolm the proposal was full of attraction. True, Lord 
Lossie had once and again spoken so as to offend him, but the 
confidence he had shown in him had gone far to atone for that. 
And to be near Lady Florimel ! — to have to wait on her in the 
yacht and sometimes in the house ! — to be allowed books from 
the library perhaps ! — to have a nice room, and those lovely 
grounds all about him ! — It was tempting ! 

The old man also, the more he reflected, liked the idea the 
more. The only thing he murmured at was, being parted from 
his grandson at night. In vain Malcolm reminded him that 
during the fishing-season he had to spend most nights alone ; 
Duncan answered that he had but to go to the door, and look out 
to sea, and there was nothing between him and his boy ; but now 
he could not tell how many stone walls might be standing up to 
divide them. He was quite willing to make the trial, however, 


200 


MALCOLM. 


and see if he could bear it So Malcolm went to speak to the 
marquis. 

He did not altogether trust the marquis, but he had always taken 
a delight in doing anything for anybody — a delight rooted in a 
natural tendency to ministration, unusually strong, and specially 
developed by the instructions of Alexander Graham conjoined 
with the necessities of his blind grandfather ; while there was an 
alluring something, it must be confessed, in the marquis’s high 
position — which let no one set down to Malcolm’s discredit : 
whether the subordination of class shall go to the development of 
reverence or of servility, depends mainly on the individual nature 
subordinated. Calvinism itself has produced as loving children 
as abject slaves, with a good many between partaking of the 
character of both kinds. Still, as he pondered over the matter on 
his way, he shrunk a good deal from placing himself at the beck 
and call of another ; it threatened to interfere with that sense of 
personal freedom which is yet dearer perhaps to the poor than to 
the rich. But he argued with himself, that he had found no in- 
fringement of it under Blue Peter ; and that, if the marquis were 
really as friendly as he professed to be, it was not likely to turn 
out otherwise with him. 

Lady Florimel anticipated pleasure in Malcolm’s probable con- 
sent to her father’s plan ; but certainly he would not have been 
greatly uplifted by a knowledge of the sort of pleasure she expected 
For some time the girl had been suffering from too much liberty. 
Perhaps there is no life more filled with a sense of oppression and 
lack of freedom than that of those under no external control, in 
whom Duty has not yet gathered sufficient strength to assume the 
reins of government and subject them to the highest law. Their 
condition is like that of a creature under an exhausted receiver- 
oppressed from within outwards for want of the counteracting 
external weight. It was amusement she hoped for from Malcolm's 
becoming in a sense one of the family at the House — to which 
she believed her knowledge of the extremely bare outlines of his 
history would largely contribute. 

He was shown at once into the presence of his lordship, whom 
he found at breakfast with his daughter. 

“ Well, MacPhail,” said the marquis, “ have you made up you* 
mind to be my skipper?” 

“ Willin’ly, my lord,” answered Malcolm. 

u Do you know how to manage a sail-boat?” 

“ I wad need, my lord.” 

“ Shall you want any help ?” 

“ That depen’s upo’ saiveral things— her ain size, the wull o 


THE SKIPPERS CHAMBER. 


201 


the win*, an* whether or no yer lordship or my leddy can tak the 

tiller.” 

“ We can’t settle about that then till she comes. I hear she ’ll 
soon be on her way now. — But I cannot have you dressed like a 
farmer !” said his lordship, looking sharply at the Sunday clothes 
which Malcolm had donned for the visit. 

“ What was I to du, my lord ?” returned Malcolm apologetically. 
f( The only ither claes I hae, are verra fishy, an’ neither yersel’ nor 
my leddy cud bide them i’ the room aside ye.” 

“ Certainly not,” responded the marquis, as in a leisurely manner 
he devoured his omelette : “ I was thinking of your future position 
as skipper of my boat. — What would you say to a kilt now?” 

“Na, na, my lord,” rejoined Malcolm; “a kilt’s no seafarin’ 
claes. A kilt wadna du ava’, my lord.” 

“ You cannot surely object to the dress of your own people,” 
said the marquis. 

“ The kilt ’s weel eneuch upon a hill-side,” said Malcolm, “ I 
dinna doobt ; but faith ! sea-farin’, my lord, ye wad want the trews 
as weel.” 

“ Well, go to the best tailor in the town, and order a naval suit 
• — white ducks and a blue jacket — two suits you ’ll want.” 

“ We s’ gar ae shuit sair s’ (satisfy tis) to begin wi’, my lord. 
I’ll jist gang to Jamie Sangster, wha maks a’ my claes — no ’at 
their mony ! — an’ get him to mizzur me. He’ll mak them weel 
eneuch for me. You ’re aye sure o’ the worth o’ yer siller frae 
him.” 

“ I tell you to go to the best tailor in the town, and order two 
suits.” 

“ Na, na, my lord ; there ’s nae need. I canna affoord it forbye. 
We ’re no a’ made o’ siller like yer lordship.” 

“ You booby ! do you suppose I would tell you to order clothes 
I did not mean to pay for?” 

Lady Florimel found her expectation of amusement not likely 
to be disappointed. 

“ Hoots, my lord !” returned Malcolm. u that wad never du. 
I maun pey for my ain claes. I wad be in i, constant terror o’ 
blaudin’ (spoiling) o’ them gien I didna, an' that wad be eneuch 
to mak a body meeserable. It wad bt z y the same, forbye, oot 
an ’ oot, as weirin’ a leevry 1” 

“ Well, well ! please your pride, and be damned to you l” said 
the marquis. 

“ Yes, let him please his pride, and be damned to him!” as- 
sented Lad) Florimel with perfect gravity. 

Malcolm started and stared. Lady Florimel kept an absolute 


202 


MALCOLM. 


composure. The marquis burst into a loud laugh. Malcolm 
stood bewildered for a moment. 

“ I’m thinkin’ I ’m gaein’ daft {delirious) !” he said at length, 
putting his hand to his head. “ It’s time I gaed. Guid mornin’, 
my lord.” 

He turned and left the room, followed by a fresh peal from 
his lordship, mingling with which his ear plainly detected the 
silvery veins of Lady Florimel’s equally merry laughter. 

When he came to himself, and was able to reflect, he saw 
there must have been some joke involved : the behaviour of 
both indicated as much ; and with this conclusion he heartened 
his dismay. 

The next morning Duncan called on Mrs Partan, and begged her 
acceptance of his stock in trade, as, having been his lordship’s piper 
for some time, he was now at length about to occupy his proper 
quarters within the policies. Mrs Findlay acquiesced, with an 
air better suited to the granting of slow leave to laboursome 
petition, than the accepting of such a generous gift; but she 
made some amends by graciously expressing a hope that Duncan 
would not forget his old friends now that he was going amongst 
lords and ladies, to which Duncan returned as courteous answer 
as if he had been addressing Lady Florimel herself. 

Before the end of the week, his few household goods were 
borne in a cart through the sea-gate dragonised by Bykes, to 
whom Malcolm dropped a humorous “ Weel Johnny!” as he 
passed, receiving a nondescript kind of grin in return. The rest 
of the forenoon was spent in getting the place in order, and in 
the afternoon, arrayed in his new garments, Malcolm reported 
himself at the House. Admitted to his lordship’s presence, he 
had a question to ask and a request to prefer. 

“ Hae ye dune onything my lord,” he said, “ aboot Mistress 
Catanach?” 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“ Anent yon cat-prowl aboot the hoose, my lord.” 

“ No. You have n’t discovered anything more — have you?” 

“ Na, my lord ; I haena had a chance. But ye may "be sure 
she had nae guid design in ’t.” 

“ I don’t suspect her of any.” 

“Weel, my lord, hae ye ony objection to lat me sleep up 
yonner?” 

“None at all — only you’d better see what Mrs Courthope 
has to say to it. Perhaps you won’t be so ready after you hear 
her story.” 

Sf But I hae yer lordship’s leave to tak ony room I like?" 


THE SKIPPERS CHAMBER 


203 


u Certainly. Go to Mrs Courthope, and tell her I wish you to 
choose your own quarters.” 

Having straightway delivered his lordship’s message, Mrs 
Courthope, wondering a little thereat, proceeded to show him 
those portions of the house set apart for the servants. He followed 
her from floor to floor — last to the upper regions, and through 
all the confused rambling roofs of the old pile, now descending 
a sudden steep-yawning stair, now ascending another where none 
could have been supposed to exist — oppressed all the time with 
a sense of the multitudinous and intricate, such as he had never 
before experienced, and such as perhaps only the works of man 
can produce, the intricacy and variety of those of nature being 
ever veiled in the grand simplicity which springs from primal 
unity of purpose. 

I find no part of an ancient house so full of interest as the 
garret-region. It has all the mystery of the dungeon-cellars with 
a far more striking variety of form, and a bewildering curiosity of 
adaptation, the peculiarities of roof-shapes and the consequent 
complexities of their relations and junctures being so much greater 
than those of foundation-plans. Then the sense of lofty loneliness 
in the deeps of air, and at the same time of proximity to things 
aerial — doves and martins, vanes and gilded balls and lightning- 
conductors, the waves of the sea of wind, breaking on the chim 
neys for rocks, and the crashing roll of the thunder — is in har- 
mony with the highest spiritual instincts ; while the clouds and 
the stars look, if not nearer, yet more germane, and the moon 
gazes down on the lonely dweller in uplifted places, as if she had 
secrets with such. The cellars are the metaphysics, the garrets 
the poetry of the house. 

Mrs Courthope was more than kind, for she was greatly pleased 
at having Malcolm for an inmate. She led him from room to 
room, suggesting now and then a choice, and listening amusedly to 
his remarks of liking or disliking, and his marvel at strangeness 
01 extent. At last he found himself following her along the pas- 
sage in which was the mysterious door, but she never stayed her 
step, or seemed to intend showing one of the many rooms open- 
ing upon it. 

“ Sic a bee’s-byke o’ rooms !” said Malcolm, making a halt 
“ Wha sleeps here V’ 

“ Nobody has slept in one of these rooms for I dare not say 
how many years,” replied Mrs Courthope, without stopping ; and 
as she spoke she passed the fearful door. 

“ I wad like to see intil this room,” said Malcolm. 

“ That door is never opened,” answered Mrs CourthoDe, who 


204 


MALCOLM. 


had now reached the end of the passage, and turned, lingering as 
m act while she spoke to move on. 

“And what for that?” asked Malcolm, continuing to stand 
before it. 

“ I would rather not answer you just here. Come along. This 
is not a part of the house where you would like to be, I am sure.” 

“ Hoo ken ye that, mem ? An’ hoo can I say mysel’ afore ye 
hae shawn me what the room ’s like ? It may be the verra place 
to tak my fancy. Jist open the door, mem, gien ye please, an' 
lat’s hae a keek intill ’t.” 

“ I daren't open it It's never opened, I tell you. It’s 
against the rules of the house. Come to my room, and I’ll tell 
you the story about it.” 

“ Weel, ye ’ll lat me see intil the neist — winna ye ? There’s 
nae law agane openin’ hit — is there ? ” said Malcolm, approach- 
ing the door next to the one in dispute. 

“ Certainly not ; but I’m pretty sure, once you’ve heard the 
story I have to tell, you won’t choose to sleep in this part of the 
house.” 

“ Lat’s luik, ony gait.” 

So saying, Malcolm took upon himself to try the handle of the 
door. It was not locked : he peeped in, then entered. It was 
a small room, low-ceiled, with a deep dormer window in the high 
pediment of a roof, and a turret-recess on each side of the 
window. It seemed very light after the passage, and looked 
down upon the burn. It was comfortably furnished, and the 
curtains of its tent-bed were chequered in squares of blue and 
white. 

“This is the verra place for me, mem,” said Malcolm, re- 
issuing ; — “ that is,” he added, “ gien ye dinna think it’s owcr 
gran’ for the likes o’ me 'at ’s no been used to onything half sae 
guid.” 

“ You’re quite welcome to it,” said Mrs Courthope, ail but 
confident he would not care to occupy it after hearing the tale of 
Lord Gernon. 

She had not moved from the end of the passage while Malcolm 
was in the room — somewhat hurriedly she now led the way to 
her own. It seemed half a mile off to the wondering Malcolm, 
as he followed her down winding stairs, along endless passages, 
and round innumerable corners. Arrived at last, she made him 
sit down, and gave him a glass of home-made wine to drink, 
while she told him the story much as she had already told it to 
the marquis, adding a hope to the effect that, if ever the marquis 
should express a wish to pry into the secret of the chamber, 


THE SKIPPERS CHAMBER. 205 

Malcolm would not encourage him in a fancy, the indulgence of 
which was certainly useless, and might be dangerous. 

“ Me ! ” exclaimed Malcolm with surprise. “ — As gien he 
w r ad heed a word I said ! 

“ Very little sometimes will turn a man either in one direction 
or the other,” said Mrs Courthope. 

“ But surely, mem, ye dinna believe in sic fule auld warld 
stories as that ! It’s weel eneuch for a tale, but to think o' a 
body turnin’ ’ae fit oot o’ ’s gait for ’t, blecks ( nonplusses ) me.” 

“ 1 don’t say I believe it,” returned Mrs Courthope, a little 
pettishly ; “ but there’s no good in mere foolhardiness.” 

“Ye dinna surely think, mem, ’at God wad lat ony thing depen’ 
upo’ whether a man opent a door in ’s ain hoose or no ! It’s 
agane a’ rizzon !” persisted Malcolm. 

“There might be reasons we couldn’t understand,” she 
replied. “ To do what we are warned against from any quarter, 
without good reason, must be foolhardy at best.” 

“ Weel. mem, I maun hae the room neist the auld warlock’s, 
ony gait for in that I’m gauin’ to sleep, an’ in nae ither in a’ this 
muckle hoose.” 

Mrs Courthope rose, full of uneasiness, and walked up and 
down the room. 

“ I’m takin’ upo’ me naething ayont his lordship’s ain word, 
urged Malcolm. 

“ If you’re to go by the very word/’ rejoined Mrs Courthope, 
stopping and looking him full in the face, “ you might insist on 
sleeping in Lord Gernon’s chamber itself.” 

“ Weel, an’ sae I micht,” returned Malcolm. 

The hinted possibility of having to change bad for so much 
worse, appeared to quench further objection. 

“ I must get it ready myself then,” she said resignedly, “ for 
the maids won’t even go up that stair. And as to going into any 
of those rooms ! ” 

“ ’Deed no, mem ! ye sanna du that,” cried Malcolm. “ Sayna 
a word to ane o’ them. I s’ wadger I’m as guid’s the auld war- 
lock himsel’ at makin’ a bed. Jist gie me the sheets an’ the 
blankets, an’ I’ll du ’t as trim ’s ony lass i’ the hoose.” 

“ But the bed will w^ant airing,” objected the housekeeper. 

“ By a’ accoonts, that’s the last thing it’s likly to want — lyin' 
neist door to yon chaumer. But I hae sleepit mony ’s the time 
er’ noo upo’ the tap o’ a boat-load o’ herrin’, an’ gien that never 
did me ony ill, it’s no likly a guid bed ’ll kill me gien it sud be a 
wee mochv {rather full of moths). 

Mrs Courthope yielded and gave him all that was needful, and 


206 


MALCOLM. 


before night Malcolm had made his new quarters quite comfort- 
able. He did not retire to them, however, until he had seen his 
grandfather laid down to sleep in his lonely cottage. 

About noon the next day the old man made his appearance in 
the kitchen. How he had found his way to it, neither he nor 
any one else could tell. There happened to be no one there 
when he entered, and the cook when she returned stood for a 
moment in the door, watching him as he felt flitting about with 
huge bony hands whose touch was yet light as the poise of a 
butterfly. Not knowing the old man, she fancied at first he was 
feeling after something in the shape of food, but presently his 
hands fell upon a brass candlestick. He clutched it, and com- 
menced fingering it all over. Alas ! it was clean, and with a look 
of disappointment he replaced it. Wondering yet more what 
his quest could be, she watched on. The next instant he had 
laid hold of a silver candlestick not yet passed through the hands 
of the scullery maid ; and for a moment she fancied him a thief, 
for he had rejected the brass and now took the silver; but he 
went no farther with it than the fireplace, where he sat down on 
the end of the large fender, and, having spread his pocket- 
handkerchief over his kilted knees, drew a similar rag from some- 
where, and commenced cleaning it. 

By this time one of the maids who knew him had joined thv 
cook, and also stood watching him with amusement. But when 
she saw the old knife drawn from his stocking, and about to be 
applied to the nozzle, to free it from adhering wax, it seemed 
more than time to break the silence. 

“ Eh ! that’s a siller can’lestick, Maister MacPhail,” she cried, 
“ an’ ye maunna tak a k-nife till ’t, or ye’ll scrat it a’ dreidfu’.” 

An angry flush glowed in the withered cheeks of the piper, as, 
without the least start at the suddenness of her interference, he 
turned his face in the direction of the speaker. 

“ You take old Tuncan’s finkers for persons of no etchucation, 
mem ! As if tey couldn’t know ta silfer from ta prass ! If tey 
wass so stupid, her nose would pe telling tern so. Efen old 
Tuncan’s knife ’ll pe knowing petter than to scratch ta silfer — 
or ta prass either ; old Tuncan’s knife would pe scratching nothing 
petter tan ta skin of a Cawmill.” 

Now the candlestick had no business in the kitchen, and if it 
were scratched, the butler would be indignant ; but the girl was a 
Campbell, and Duncan’s words so frightened her that she did not 
dare interfere. She soon saw, however, that the piper had not 
over-vaunted his skill : the skene left not a mark upon the metal; 
in a few minutes he had melted away the wax he could not other- 


THE LIBRARY. 


207 


wise reach., and had rubbed the candlestick perfectly bright, 
leaving behind him no trace except an unpleasant odour of train- 
oil from the rag. From that hour he was cleaner of lamps and 
candlesticks, as well as blower of bagpipes, to the House of 
Lossie ; and had everything provided necessary to the performance 
of his duties with comfort and success. 

Before many weeks were over, he had proved the possession 
of such a talent for arrangement and general management, at 
least in everything connected with illumination, that the entire 
charge of the lighting of the house was left in his hands, — even 
to that of its stores of wax and tallow and oil ; and great was the 
pleasure he derived, not only from the trust reposed in him, but 
from other more occult sources connected with the duties of his 
office. 


CHAPTER XXXI I L 

THE LIBRARY. 

Malcolm’s first night was rather troubled, — not primarily from 
the fact that but a thin partition separated him from the wizard’s 
chamber, but from the deadness of the silence around him ; for 
he had been all his life accustomed to the near noise of the sea, 
and its absence had upon him the rousing effect of an unaccus- 
tomed sound. He kept hearing the dead silence — was constantly 
dropping, as it were into its gulf ; and it was no wonder that a 
succession of sleepless fits, strung together rather than divided 
by as many dozes little better than startled rousings, should at 
length have so shaken his mental frame as to lay it open to the 
assaults of nightly terrors, the position itself being sufficient to 
seduce his imagination, and carry it over to the interests of the 
enemy. 

But Malcolm had early learned that a man’s will must, like a 
true monarch, rule down every rebellious movement of its sub- 
jects, and he was far from yielding to such inroads as now 
assailed him ; still it was long before he fell asleep, and then only 
to dream without quite losing consciousness of his peculiar sur- 
roundings. He seemed to know that he lay in his own bed, anc| 
yet to be somehow aware of the presence of a pale woman in a 
white garment, who sat on the side of the bed in the next room, 
still and silent, with her hands in her lap, and her eyes on the 
ground. Fie thought he had seen her before, and knew, notwith- 


208 


MALCOLM , ; 


standing her silence, that she was lamenting over a child she had 
lost. He knew also where her child was, — that it lay crying in a 
cave down by the sea-shore ; but he could neither rise to go to 
her, nor open his mouth to call. The vision kept coming and 
coming, like the same tune played over and over on a barrel 
organ, and when he woke seemed to fill all the time he had 
slept. 

About ten o’clock he was summoned to the marquis’s presence, 
and found him at breakfast with Lady Florimel. 

“ Where did you sleep last night?” asked the marquis. 

“ Neist door to the auld warlock,” answered Malcolm. 

Lady Florimel looked up with a glance of bright interest : her 
father had just been telling her the story. 

“ You did !” said the marquis. “ Then Mrs Courthope — did 
she tell you the legend about him 

“ Ay did she, my lord.” 

“Well, how did you sleep?” 

“ Middlin’ only.” 

“ How was that ?” 

“ I dinna ken, ’cep it was ’at I was fule eneuch to fin* the 
place gey eerie like.” 

“ Aha !” said the marquis. “ You’ve had enough of it ! You 
won’t try it again !” 

“ What ’s that ye say, my lord ?” rejoined Malcolm. “ Wad ye 
hae a man turn ’s back at the first fleg? Na, na, my lord; that 
wad never du !” 

“ Oh ! then, you did have a fright ?” ’ 

“ Na, I canna say that aither. Naething waur cam near me 
nor a dream ’at plaguit me — an’ it wasna sic an ill ane efter a’.” 

“ What was it?” 

“ I thocht there was a bonny leddy sittin’ o’ the bed i’ the neist 
room, in her nicht-goon like, an’ she was greitin’ sair in her heirt, 
though she never loot a tear fa’ doon. She was greitin’ aboot a 
bairnie she had lost, an’ I kent weel whaur the bairnie was — doon 
in a cave upo’ the shore, I thoucht — an’ was jist yirnin’ to gang till 
her an’ tell her, an’ stop the greitin’ o’ her hert, but I cudna muv 
han’ nor fit, naither cud I open my mou’ to cry till her. An’ I 
gaed dreamin’ on at the same thing ower an’ ower, a’ the time I 
was asleep. But there was naething sae frichtsome aboot that, 
my lord.” 

“ No, indeed,” said his lordship. 

“ Only it garred me greit tu, my lord, ’cause I cudna win at 
her to help her.” 

His lordship laughed, but oddly, and changed the subject 


THE LIBRARY. 209 

“ There’s no word cf that boat yet,” he said. 44 1 must write 

again.” 

“May I show Malcolm the library, papa?” asked Lady 
Florimel. 

“ I wad fain see the buiks,” adjected Malcolm. 

u You don’t know what a scholar he is, papa !” 

“ Little eneuch o’ that !” said Malcolm. 

“ Oh yes ! I do,” said the marquis, answering his daughter. 
“ But he must keep the skipper from my books and the scholar 
from my boat.” 

“ Ye mean a scholar wha wad skip yer buiks, my lord ! Haith ! 
sic wad be a skipper wha wad ill scull yer boat ! ” said Malcolm, 
with a laugh at the poor attempt. 

“ Bravo 1 ” said the marquis, who certainly was not over critical. 
u Can you write a good hand?” 

“ No ill, my lord.” 

“ So much the better ! I see you ’ll be worth your wages.” 

“ That depen’s on the wages,” returned Malcolm. 

“ And that reminds me you ’ve said nothing about them yet” 

“ Naither has yer lordship.” 

u Well, what are they to be ?” 

“ Whatever ye think proper, my lord. Only dinna gar me 
gang to Maister Crathie for them.” 

The marquis had sent away the man who was waiting when 
Malcolm entered, and during this conversation Malcolm had of 
his own accord been doing his best to supply his place. The 
meal ended, Lady Florimel desired him to wait a moment in the 
hall. # . 

“ He ’s so amusing, papa!” she said. “I want to see him 
stare at the books. He thinks the schoolmaster’s hundred 
volumes a grand library ! He ’s such a goose ! It ’s the greatest 
fun in the world watching him.” 

“ No such goose !” said the marquis ; but he recognized him- 
self in his child, and laughed. 

Florimel ran off merrily, as bent on a joke, and joined 
Malcolm. 

“ Now, I ’m going to show you the library,” she said. 

“ Thank ye, my leddy ; that will be gran’ !” replied Malcolm. 

He followed her up two staircases, and through more than one 
long narrow passage : all the ducts of the house were long and 
narrow, causing him a sense of imprisonment — vanishing ever 
into freedom at the opening of some door into a great room. 
But never had he had a dream of such a room as that at which 
they now arrived. He started with a sort of marvelling dismay 


210 


MALCOLM. 


when she threw open the door of the library, and he beheld ten 
thousand volumes at a glance, all in solemn stillness. It was like 
a sepulchre of kings. But his astonishment took a strange form 
of expression, the thought in which was beyond the reach of his 
mistress. 

“ Eh, my leddy !” he cried, after staring for a while in breath* 
less bewilderment, “ it ’s jist like a byke o’ frozen bees ! Eh ! 
gien they war a’ to come to life an’ stick their stangs o’ trowth intill 
a body, the wankin’ up wad be awfu’ ! — It jist gars my heid gang 
roon’ !” he added, after a pause. 

“ It is a fine thing,” said the girl, “ to have such a library.” 

“ ’Deed is ’t, my leddy ! It’s ane o’ the prrevileeges o’ rank,” 
said Malcolm. “ It taks a faimily that haud? on throu’ centeries 
in a hoose whaur things gether, to mak sic an unaccoontable 
getherin’ o’ buiks as that. It’s a gran’ sicht — worth livin’ to 
see.” 

“ Suppose you were to be a rich man some day,” said Florimel, 
in the condescending tone she generally ad' <pted when addressing 
him, “ it would be one of the first things you would set about — 
wouldn’t it — to get such a library together ? ” 

“ Na, my leddy; I wad hae mair wut. A leebrary canna be 
made a’ at ance, ony mair nor a hoose, or a nation, or a muckle 
tree : they maun a’ tak time to grow, an’ sae maun a leebrary. I 
wadna even ken what buiks to gang an’ speir for. I daursay, gien I 
war to try, I cudna at a moment’s notice tell ye the names o’ mair 
nor a twa score o’ buiks at the ootside. Fowk maun mak ac- 
quantance amo’ buiks as they wad amo’ leevin’ fowk.” 

“ But you could get somebody who knew more about them 
than yourself to buy for you.” 

“ I wad as sune think o’ gettin’ somebody to ate my denner 
for me.” 

“ No, that’s not fair,” said Florimel. “It would only be like 
getting somebody who knew more of cookery than yourself, to 
order your dinner for you.” 

“Ye’re richt, my leddy; but still I wad as sune think o’ the 
tane ’s the tither. What wad come o’ the like o’ me, div ye 
think, broucht up upo’ meal-brose, an’ herrin’, gien ye was to set 
me doon to sic a denner as my lord, yer father, wad ait ilka day, 
an’ think naething o’ ? But gien some fowk hed the buyin’ o’ 
my buiks, I’m thinkin’ the first thing I wad hae to du, wad be to 
fling the half o’ them into the burn.” 

“ What good would that do ? ” 

“ Clear awa’ the rubbitch. Ye see, my leddy, it’s no buiks, 
but what buiks. Eh ! there maun be mony ane o’ the richt sort 


THE LIBRARY. 


2 I X 


here, though. I wonner gien Mr Graham ever saw them. He 
wad surely hae made mention o them i’ my hearin’ ! ” 

“ What would be the first thing you would do, then, Malcolm* 
if you happened to turn out a great man after all ? ” said Florimel, 
seating herself in a huge library chair, whence, having arranged 
her skirt, she looked up in the young fisherman’s face. 

“ I doobt I wad hae to sit doon, an’ turn ower the change a 
feow times afore I kent aither mysel’ or what wad become me,” 
he said. 

“ That’s not answering my question,” retorted Florimel. 

“ Weel, the second thing I wad du,” said Malcolm, thought- 
fully, and pausing a moment, “wad be to get Mr Graham to 
gang wi' me to Ebberdeen, an’ cairry me throu’ the classes there. 
Of coorse, I wadna try for prizes ; that wadna be fair to them ’at 
cudna affoord a tutor at their lodgin’s.” 

“ But it’s the first thing you would do that I want to know,” 
persisted the girl 

“ I tellt ye I wad sit doon an’ think aboot it.” 

“ I don’t count that doing anything.” 

“ ’Deed, my leddy ! thinkin ’s the hardest wark I ken.” 

“Well, what is it you would think about first?” said Florimel 
— not to be diverted from her course. 

“ Ow, the third thing I wad du — ” * J 

“ I want to know the first thing you would think about.” 

“ I canna say yet what the third thing wad be. Fower year at 
the college wad gie me time to reflec upon a hantle o’ things.” 

“ I insist on knowing the first thing you would think about 
doing,” cried Florimel, with mock imperiousness, but real 
tyranny. 

“ Weel, my leddy, gien ye wull hae ’t — but hoo great a ma»? 
wad ye be makin’ o’ me ? ” 

“ Oh ! — let me see ; — yes — yes — the heir to an earldom.— 
That’s liberal enough — is it not ? ” 

“ That ’s as muckle as say I wad come to be a yerl some day, 
sae be I didna dee upo’ the ro’d ? ” 

“Yes — that’s what it means.” 

“ An’ a j'erl’s neist door till a markis — isna he ? ” 

“Yes — he’s in the next lower rank.” 

“Lower? — Ay ! — No that muckle, maybe? ” 

“No,” said Lady Florimel consequentially; “the differenc* 
is not so great as to prevent their meeting on a level of courtesy.” 

“ I dinna freely ken what that means ; but gien ’t be yer leddy- 
ship’s wull to mak a yerl o’ me, I’m no to raise ony objections.” 

He uttered it definitively, and stood silent. 


MALCOLM, 


2i* 

“ Well ? ” said the girl. 

“ What’s yer wull, my leddy?” returned Malcolm, as if roused 
from a reverie. 

“ Where’s your answer? ” 

“ I said I wad be a yerl to please yer leddyship. — T wad be a 
flunky for the same rizzon, gien ’t was to wait upo’ yersel’ an’ nae 
ither.” 

“ I ask you,” said Florimel, more imperiously than ever, “ what 
is the first thing you would do, if you found yourself no longer 
a fisherman, but the son of an earl ? ” 

“ But it maun be that I was a fisherman — to the en’ o’ a’ 
creation, my leddy.” 

“ You refuse to answer my question ? ” 

“ By no means, my leddy, gien ye wull hae an answer.” 

“ I will have an answer.” 

“ Gien ye wull hae ’t than But — ” 

“No buts , but an answer ! ” 

“ Weel — it’s yer ain wyte, my leddy ! — I wad jist gang doon 
upo’ my k-nees, whaur I stude afore ye, and tell ye a Heap o* 
things ’at maybe by that time ve wad ken weel eneuch a’ready.” . 

“ What would you tell me ? ” 

“ I wad tell ye ’at yer een war like the verra leme o’ the levin 
(brightness of the lightning) itsel’; yer cheek like a white rose i’ 
the licht frae a reid ane ; yer hair jist the saft lattin’ gang o’ his 
han’s whan the Maker cud du nae mair; yer mou’ jist fashioned 
to drive fowk daft ’at daurna come nearer nor luik at it ; an’ for 
yer shape, it was like naething in natur’ but itsel’. — Ye wad hae’t 
my leddy ! ” he added apologetically — and well he might, for 
Lady Florimel’s cheek had flushed, and her eye had been darting 
fire long before he got to the end of his Celtic outpouring. 
Whether she was really angry or not, she had no difficulty in 
making Malcolm believe she was. She rose from her chair — 
though not until he had ended — swept half-way to the door, then 
turned upon him with a flash. 

“ How dare you ? ” she said, her breed well obeying the call 
of the game. 

“ I’m verra sorry, my leddy,” faltered Malcolm, trying to steady 
himself against a strange trembling that had laid hold upon him, 
“ — but ye maun alloo it was a’ yer ain wyte.” 

“ Do you dare to say 1 encouraged you to talk such stuff to me?” 

“Ye did gar me, my leddy.” 

Florimel turned and undulated from the room, leaving the 
poor fellow like a statue in the middle of it, with the books all 
turning their backs upon him. 


MILTON, AND THE BAY MATE. 


213 


“ Noo,” he said to himself, “ she’s aff to tell her father, and 
‘here’ll be a bonny bane to pyke atween him an’ me ! But 
haith ! I’ll jist tell him the trowth o’ ’t, an’ syne he can mak a 
kirk an’ a mill o’ ’t, gien he likes.” 

With this resolution he stood his ground, every moment ex- 
pecting the wrathful father to make his appearance and at the least 
order him out of the house. But minute passed after minute, 
and no wrathful father came. He grew calmer by degrees, and at 
length began to peep at the titles of the books. 

When the great bell rang for lunch, he was embalmed rather 
than buried in one of Milton’s prose volumes — standing before 
the shelf on which he had found it — the very incarnation of 
study. 

My reader may well judge that Malcolm could not have been 
very far gone in love, seeing he was thus able to read. I remark in 
return that it was not merely the distance between him and Lady 
Florimel that had hitherto preserved his being from absorption 
and his will from annihilation, but also the strength of his 
common sense, and the force of his individuality. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

MILTON, AND THE BAY MARE. 

For some days Malcolm saw nothing more of Lady Florimel ; 
but with his grandfather’s new dwelling to see to, with the car- 
penter’s shop and the blacksmith’s forge open to him, and an eye 
to detect whatever wanted setting right, the hours did not hang 
heavy on his hands. At length, whether it was that she thought she 
had punished him sufficiently for an offence for which she was her- 
self only to blame, or that she had indeed never been offended at 
all and had only been keeping up her one-sided game, she began 
again to indulge the interest she could not help feeling in him, an 
interest heightened by the mystery which hung over his birth, and 
by the fact that she knew that concerning him of which he was 
himself ignorant. At the same time, as I have already said, she 
had no little need of an escape from the ennui which, now that 
the novelty of a country life had worn off, did more than oc- 
casionally threaten her. She began again to seek his company 
under the guise of his help, half requesting, half commanding his 
services; and Malcolm found himself admitted afresh to the 


214 


MALCOLM , ; 


heaven of her favour. Young as he was, he read himself a lesson 
suitable to the occasion. 

One afternoon the marquis sent for him to the library, but when 
he reached it his master was not yet there. He took down the 
volume of Milton in which he had been reading before, and was 
soon absorbed in it again. 

“ Faith ! it’s a big shame, ” he cried at length almost uncon- 
sciously, and closed the book with a slam. 

“What is a big shame?” said the voice of the marquis close 
behind him. 

Malcolm started, and almost dropped the volume. 

“ I beg yer lordship’s pardon,” he said ; “ I didna hear ye 
come in.” 

“What is the book you were reading?” asked the marquis. 

“ I was jist readin’ a bit o’ Milton’s Eikonoklastes,” answered 
Malcolm, “ — a buik I hae hard tell o’, but never saw wi’ my ain 
een afore.” 

“And what’s your quarrel with it?” asked his lordship. 

“ I canna mak oot what sud set a great man like Milton sae 
sair agane a puir cratur like Cherles.” 

“ Read the history, and you ’ll see.” 

“ Ow ! I ken something aboot the politics o’ the time, an’ I ’m 
no sayin’ they war that wrang to tak the heid frae him, but what 
for sud Milton hate the man efter the king was deid?” 

“ Because he didn’t think the king dead enough, I suppose.” 

“ I see ! — an’ they war settin’ him up for a sant. Still he had 
a richt to fair play. — Jist hearken, my lord.” 

So saying, Malcolm reopened the volume, and read the well- 
known passage, in the first chapter, in which Milton censures the 
king as guilty of utter irreverence, because of his adoption of the 
prayer of Pamela in the Arcadia. 

“ Noo, my lord,” he said, half-closing the book, “what wad ye 
expec’ to come upo’, efter sic a denunciation as that, but some 
awfu’ haithenish thing? Weel, jist hearken again, for here’s the 
verra prayer itsel’ in a futnote.” 

His lordship had thrown himself into a chair, had crossed one 
leg over the other, and was now stroking its knee. 

“Noo, my lord,” said Malcolm again, as he concluded, “what 
think ye o’ the jeedgment passed ?” 

“ Really I have no opinion to give about it,” answered the 
marquis. “ I ’m no theologian. I see no harm in the prayer.” 

“ Hairm in ’t, my lord ! It ’s perfetly gran’ ! It ’s sic a prayer 
as cuana weel be aiqualt. It vexes me to the verra hert o’ my 
sowl that a michty man like Milton — ane whase bein’ was a crood 


MILTON, AND THE BA Y MARE . 215 

o’ hermonies — slid ca’ that the prayer o’ a haithen wuman till a 
haithen God. *0 all-seein’ Licht, an’ eternal Life c’ a’ things!’ 
— Ca’s he that a haithen God ? — or her ’at prayed sic a prayer a 
haithen wuman ?” 

“ Well, well,” said the marquis, “ I do n’t want it all over again. 
I see nothing to find fault with, myself, but I do n’t take much 
interest in that sort of thing.” 

“ There’s a wee bitty o’ Laitin, here i’ the note, ’at I canna 
freely mak oot,” said Malcolm, approaching Lord Lossie with his 
finger on the passage, never doubting that the owner of such a 
library must be able to read Latin perfectly : Mr Graham would 
have put him right at once, and his books would have been lost 
in one of the window-corners of this huge place. But his lordship 
waved him back. 

“ I can’t be your tutor,” he said, not unkindly. “ My Latin is 
far too rusty for use.” 

The fact was that his lordship had never got beyond Maturin 
Cordier’s Colloquies. 

“ Besides,” he went on, “ I want you to do something for me.” 

Malcolm instantly replaced the book on its shelf, and 
approached his master, saying — 

“Wull yer lordship lat me read whiles, i’ this gran’ place? I 
mean whan I’m no wantit ither gaits, an’ there ’s naebody here.” 

“To be sure,” answered the marquis; “ — only the scholar 
must n’t come with the skipper’s hands.” 

“ I s’ tak guid care o’ that, my lord. I wad as sune think o’ 
handin’ a book wi’ wark-like han’s as I wad o’ branderin’ a 
mackeral ohn cleaned it oot.” 

“And when we have visitors, you’ll be careful not to get in 
their way.” 

“ I wull that, my lord.” 

“ And now,” said his lordship rising, “ I want you to take a 
letter to Mrs Stewart of Kirkbyres. — Can you ride?” 

“ I can ride the bare back weel eneuch for a fisher-loon,” said 
Malcolm ; “ but I never was upon a saiddle i’ my life.” 

“ The sooner you get used to one the better. Go and tell Stoat 
to saddle the bay mare. Wait in the yard : I will bring the letter 
out to you myself.” 

“ Yerra weel, my lord !” said Malcolm. He knew, from sundry 
remarks he had heard about the stables, that the mare in question 
was a ticklish one to ride, but would rather have his neck broken 
than object 

Hardly was she ready, when the marquis appeared, accompanied 
j)y Lady Florimel — both expecting to enjoy a laugh at Malcolm’s 


2l6 


MALCOLM ; 


expense. But when the mare was brought out, and he was going 
to mount her where she stood, something seemed to wake in the 
marquis’s heart, or conscience, or wherever the pigmy Duty slept 
that occupied the all-but sinecure of his moral economy : he 
looked at Malcolm for a moment, then at the ears of the mare 
hugging her neck, and last at the stones of the paved yard. 

“ Lead her on to the turf, Stoat,” he said. 

The groom obeyed, all followed, and Malcolm mounted. The 
same instant he lay on his back on the grass, amidst a general 
laugh, loud on the part of marquis and lady, and subdued on that 
of the servants. But the next he was on his feet, and, the groom 
still holding the mare, in the saddle again : a little anger is a fine 
spur for the side, of even an honest intent. This time he sat for 
half a minute, and then found himself once more on the grass. 
It was but once more : his mother earth had claimed him again 
only to complete his strength. A third time he mounted — and 
sat. As soon as she perceived it would be hard work to unseat 
him, the mare was quiet. 

“ Bravo ! ” cried the marquis, giving him the letter. 

“ Will there be an answer, my lord ? ” 

“ Wait and see.” 

“ I s’ gar you pey for’t, gien we come upon a broon rig atween 
this an’ Kirkbyres,” said Malcolm, addressing the mare, and rode 
away. 

Both the marquis and Lady Florimel, whose laughter had al- 
together ceased in the interest of watching the struggle, stood 
looking after him with a pleased expression, which, as he vanished 
up the glen, changed to a mutual glance and smile. 

“ He’s got good blood in him, however he came by it,” 
said the marquis. “ The country is more indebted to its 
nobility than is generally understood.” 

Otherwise indebted at least than Lady Florimel could gather 
from her father’s remark ! 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

KIRKBYRES. 

Malcolm felt considerably refreshed 'after his tussle with the 
mare and his victory over her, and much enjoyed his ride of ten 
miles. It was a cool autumn afternoon. A few of the fields were 
being reaped, one or two were crowded with stooks, while many 


KIRKBYRES. 


217 


crops of oats yet waved and rustled in various stages of vanishing 
green. On all sides kine were lowing ; overhead rooks were 
cawing ; the sun was nearing the west, and in the hollows a thin 
mist came steaming up. Malcolm had never in his life been so 
far from the coast before : his road led southwards into the heart 
of the country. 

The father of the late proprietor of Kirkbyres had married the 
heiress of Gersefell, an estate which marched with his own, and 
was double its size, whence the lairdship was sometimes spoken 
of by the one name, sometimes by the other. The combined 
properties thus inherited by the late Mr Stewart were of sufficient 
extent to justify him, although a plain man, in becoming a suitor 
for the hand of the beautiful daughter of a needy baronet in the 
neighbourhood — with the already somewhat tarnished condition of 
whose reputation, having come into little contact with the world in 
which she moved, he was unacquainted. Quite unexpectedly she 
also, some years after their marriage, brought him a property of con- 
siderable extent, a fact which doubtless had its share in the birth 
and nourishment of her consuming desire to get the estates into 
her own management. 

Towards the end of his journey, Malcolm came upon a baremoor- 
land waste, on the long ascent of a low hill, — very desolate, with 
not a tree or house within sight for two miles. A ditch, half full 
of dark water, bordered each side of the road, which went straight 
as a rod through a black peat moss lying cheerless and dreary on all 
sides — hardly less so where the sun gleamed from the surface of 
some stagnant pool filling a hole whence peats had been dug, or 
where a patch of cotton-grass waved white and lonely in the 
midst of the waste expanse. At length, when he reached the top 
of the ridge, he saw the house of Kirkbyres below him ; and, 
with a small modem lodge near by, a wooden gate showed the 
entrance to its grounds. Between the gate and the house he 
passed through a young plantation of larches and other firs for a 
quarter of a mile, and so came to an old wall with an iron gate 
in the middle of it, within which the old house, a gaunt meagre 
building — a bare house in fact, relieved only by four small turrets 
or bartizans, one at each corner — lifted its grey walls, pointed 
gables, and steep roof, high into the pale blue air. He rode 
round the outer wall, seeking a back entrance, and arrived at a 
farm yard, where a boy took his horse. Finding the kitchen 
door open, he entered, and having delivered his letter to a servant 
girl, sat down to wait the possible answer. 

In a few minutes she returned and requested him to follow her. 
This was more than he had calculated upon, but he obeyed at 


218 


MALCOLM ; 


once. The girl led him along a dark passage, and up a winding 
stone-stair, much worn, to a room richly furnished, and older-fash- 
ioned,he thought, than any room he had yet seen in Lossie House. 

On a settee, with her back to a window, sat Mrs Stewart, a 
lady tall and slender, with well-poised, easy carriage, and a 
motion that might have suggested the lithe grace of a leopard. 
She greeted him with a bend of the head and a smile, which, 
even in the twilight and her own shadow, showed a gleam of 
ivory, and spoke to him in a hard sweet voice, wherein an ear 
more experienced than Malcolm’s might have detected an 
accustomed intent to please. Although he knew nothing of the 
so-called world, and hence could recognize neither the Parisian 
air of her dress nor the indications of familiarity with fashionable 
life prominent enough in her bearing, he yet could not fail to be 
at least aware of the contrast between her appearance and her 
surroundings. Yet less could the far stronger contrast escape 
him, between the picture in his own mind of the mother of the 
mad laird, and the woman before him ; he could not by any 
effort cause the two to coalesce. 

“ You have had a long ride, Mr MacPhail,” she said ; “you 
must be tired.” 

“ What wad tire me, mem ? ” returned Malcolm. “ It’s a fine 
caller evenin’, an’ I hed ane o’ the marquis’s best mears to carry me.” 

“ You’ll take a glass of wine, anyhow,” said Mrs Stewart. 
“ Will you oblige me by ringing the bell ? ” 

“No, I thank ye, mem. The mear wad be better o’ a mou’fu’ 
o’ meal an’ watter, but I want naething mysel’.” 

A shadow passed over the lady’s face. She rose and rang the 
bell, then sat in silence until it was answered. 

“ Bring the wine and cake,” she said, then turned to Malcolm. 
“Your master speaks very kindly of you. He seems to trust 
you thoroughly.’ 

“ I’m verra glaid to hear ’t, mem ; but he has never had muckle 
cause to trust or distrust me yet.’ 

“ He seems even to think that / might place equal confidence 
in you.” 

“I dinna ken. I wadna hae ye lippen to me owre muckle,” 
said Malcolm. 

“You do not mean to contradict the good character your 
master gives you ? ” said the lady, with a smile and a look right 
into his eyes. 

“ I wadna hae ye lippen till me afore ye had my word,” said 
Malcolm. 

“ I may use my own judgment about that,” she replied, with 


KIRK BY RES. 


219 


another winning smile. “But oblige me by taking a glass of 
wine.” 

She rose and approached the decanters. 

“ ’Deed no, mem ! I’m no used till ’t, an’ it micht jummle tny 
jeedgement,” said Malcolm, who had placed himself on the de- 
fensive from the first, jealous of his own conduct as being the 
friend of the laird. 

At his second refusal the cloud again crossed the lady’s brow, 
but her smile did not vanish. Pressing her hospitality no more, 
she resumed her seat. 

“ My lord tells me,” she said, folding a pair of lovely hands on 
her lap, “ that you see my poor unhappy boy sometimes.” 

“No sae dooms (< absolutely ) unhappy, mem!” said Malcolm; 
but she went on without heeding the remark. 

“ And that you rescued him not long ago from the hands of 
ruffians.” 

Malcolm made no reply. 

“ Everybody knows,” she continued, after a slight pause, 
“ what an unhappy mother I am. It is many years since I lost 
the loveliest infant ever seen, while my poor Stephen was left to 
be the mockery of every urchin in the street !” 

She sighed deeply, and one of the fair hands took a hand 
kerchief from a work-table near. 

“No in Portlossie, mem,” said Malcolm. “There’s verra 
feow o’ them so hard-hertit or so ill-mainnert. They’re used to 
seein’ him at the schuil, whaur he shaws himsel’ whiles ; an’ he ’s 
a great favourite wi’ them, for he’s ane o’ the best craturs livin’.” 

“ A poor, witless, unmanageable being ! He’s a dreadful grief 
to me,” said the widowed mother, with a deep sigh. 

“A bairn could manage him,” said Malcolm in strong con- 
tradiction. 

“ Oh, if I could but convince him of my love ! but he won’t 
give me a chance. He has an unaccountable dread of me, which 
makes him as well as me wretched. It is a delusion which no 
argument can overcome, and seems indeed an essential part of 
his sad affliction. The more care and kindness he needs, the 
less will he accept at my hands. I long to devote my life to him, 
and he will not allow me. I should be but too happy to nurse 
him day and night. Ah, Mr MacPhail, you little know a mother’s 
heart ! Even if my beautiful boy had not been taken from me, 
Stephen would still have been my idol, idiot as he is — and will be 
as long as he lives. And—” 

“ He ’s nae idiot, mem,” interposed Malcolm. 

“And just imagine,” she went on, “what a misery it must be 


220 


MALCOLM. 


to a widowed mother, poor companion as he would be at the best, 
to think of her boy roaming the country like a beggar ! sleeping 
she doesn’t know where ! eating wretched food ! and — ” 

“ Guid parritch an’ milk, an’ brose an’ butter,” said Malcolm 
parenthetically ; “ — whiles herrin’ an’ yallow haddies.” 

“ It’s enough to break a mother’s heart ! If I could but per- 
suade him to come home for a week so as to have a chance with 
him ! But it’s no use trying : ill-disposed people have made 
mischief between us, telling wicked lies, and terrifying the poor 
fellow almost to death. It is quite impossible except I get 
some one to help me — and there are so few who have any in- 
fluence with him ! ” 

Malcolm thought she must surely have had chances enough 
before he ran away from her; but he could not help feeling 
softened towards her. 

“Supposin’ I was to get ye speech o’ ’im, mem?” he said. 

“That would not be of the slightest use. He is so prejudiced 
against me, he would only shriek, and go into one of those 
horrible fits.” 

“ I dinna see what’s to be dune than,” said Malcolm. 

“ I must have him brought here — there is no other way.” 

“An’ whaur wad be the guid o’ that, mem? By yer ain 
shawin’, he wad rin oot o’ ’s verra body to win awa’ frae ye.” 

“ I did not mean by force,” returned Mrs Stewart. “ Some 
one he has confidence in must come with him. Nothing else 
will give me a chance. He would trust you now ; your presence 
would keep him from being terrified — at his own mother, alas ! 
through you he would learn to trust me ; and if a course of 
absolute indulgence did not bring him to live like other people 
— that of course is impossible — it might at least induce him to 
live at home, and cease to be a by-word to the neighbourhood.” 

Her tone was so refined, and her voice so pleading ; her sorrow 
was so gentle; and she looked, in the dimness, to Malcolm’s 
imagination at least, so young and handsome, that the strong 
castle of his prejudices was sw r aying as if built on reeds ; and had 
it not been that he was already the partizan of her son, and there- 
fore in honour bound to give him the benefit of every doubt, he 
would certainly have been gained over to work her will. He 
knew absolutely nothing against her — not even that she was the 
person he had seen in Mrs Catanach’s company in the garret of 
Lossie House. But he steeled himself to distrust her, and held 
his peace. 

“ It is clear,” she resumed after a pause, “that the intervention 
of some friend of both is the only thing that can be of the small- 


KIRKBYRES. 


221 


est use. I know you are a friend of his — a true one, and I do 
not see why you should not be a friend of mine as welL — Will 
you be my friend too ?” 

She rose as she said the words, and approaching him, bent on 
him out of the shadow the full strength of eyes whose light had 
not yet begun to pale before the dawn we call death, and held 
out a white hand glimmering in the dusk : she knew only too 
well the power of a still fine woman of any age over a youth of 
twenty. 

Malcolm, knowing nothing about it, yet felt hers, and was on 
his guard. He rose also, but did not take her hand. 

“ I have had only too much reason,” she added, “ to distrust 
some who, unlike you, professed themselves eager to serve me ; 
but I know neither Lord Lossie nor you will play me false.” 

She took his great rough hand between her two soft palms, 
and for one moment Malcolm was tempted — no to betray his 
friend, but to simulate a yielding sympathy, in order to come at 
the heart of her intent, and should it prove false, to foil it the 
more easily. But the honest nature of him shrunk from decep- 
tion, even where the object of it was good : he was not at liberty 
to use falsehood for the discomfiture of the false even ; a pre- 
tended friendship was of the vilest of despicable things, and the 
more holy the end, the less fit to be used for the compassing of it 
— least of all in the cause of a true friendship. 

“ I canna help ye, mem,” he said ; “ I dauma. I hae sic a 
regaird for yer son ’at afore I wad du onything to hairm him, I 
wad hae my twa han’s chappit frae the shackle-bane.” 

“ Surely, my dear Mr MacPhail,” returned the lady in her 
most persuasive tones, and with her sweetest smile, “ you cannot 
call it harming a poor idiot to restore him to the care of his own 
mother !” 

“ That’s as it turnt oot,” rejoined Malcolm. “ But I’m sure o’ 
ae thing, mem, an’ that is, ’at he’s no sae muckle o’ an eediot as 
some fowk wad hae him.” 

Mrs Stewart’s face fell, she turned from him, and going back 
to her seat hid her face in her handkerchief. 

“ I’m afraid,” she said sadly, after a moment, “ I must give up 
my last hope : you are not disposed to be friendly to me, Mr 
MacPhail ; you too have been believing hard things of me.” 

“ That’s true ; but no frae hearsay alane,” returned Malcolm. 
“ The luik o’ the puir fallow whan he but hears the chance word 
wither, ’s a sicht no to be forgotten. He grips his lugs atween ’s 
twa han’s, an’ rins like a colley wi’ a pan at ’s tail That couldna 
come o’ naething.” 


222 


MALCOLM ; 


Mrs Stewart hid her face on the cushioned arm of the settee, 
and sobbed. A moment after she sat erect again, but languid 
and red-eyed, saying, as if with sudden resolve : 

“ I will tell you all I know about it, and then you can judge 
for yourself. When he was a very small child, I took him for 
advice to the best physicians in London and Paris : all advised 
a certain operation which had to be performed for consecutive 
months, at intervals of a few days. Though painful it was simple, 
yet of such a nature that no one was so fit to attend to it as his 
mother. Alas ! instead of doing him any good, it has done me 
the worst injury in the world : my child hates me !” 

Again she hid her face on the settee. 

The explanation was plausible enough, and the grief of the 
mother surely apparent ! Malcolm could not but be touched. 

“ It’s no ’at I’m no willin’ to be your freen’, mem ; but I’m yer 
son’s freen’ a’ready, an’ gien he war to hear onything ’at gart him 
mislippen till me, it wad gang to my hert.” 

“ Then you can judge what I feel !” said the lady. 

“ Gien it wad hale your hert to hurt mine, I wad think aboot 
it, mem ; but gien it hurtit a’ three o’ ’s, and did guid to nane, it 
wad be a misfit a’thegither. I’ll du naething till I’m doonricht 
sure it’s the pairt o’ a freen’.” 

“That’s just what makes you the only fit person to help me 
that I know. If I were to employ people in the affair, they might 
be rough with the poor fellow.” 

“ Like eneuch, mem,” assented Malcolm, while the words put 
him afresh on his guard. 

“ But I might be driven to it,” she added. 

Malcolm responded with an unuttered vow. 

“ It might become necessary to use force — whereas you could 
lead him with a word.” 

“ Na; I’m naither sic witch nor sic traitor.” 

“ Where would be the treachery when you knew it would be 
for his good?” 

“That’s jist what I dinna ken, mem,” retorted Malcolm. 
“ Luik ye here, mem,” he continued, rousing himself to venture 
an appeal to the mother’s heart ; “ — here’s a man it has pleased 
God to mak no freely like ither fowk. His min’ though cawpable 
o’ a hantle mair nor a body wad think ’at didna ken him sae weel 
as I du, is certainly weyk — though maybe the weykness lies mair i’ 
the tongue than i’ the brain o’ ’im efter a’ — an’ he’s been sair 
frichtit wi’ some guideship or ither ; the upshot o’t a’ bein’, ’at 
he’s unco timoursome, and ready to bursten himsel’ rinnin’ whan 
there’s nane pursuin’. But he’s the gentlest o’ craturs — a doon- 


KIRK BYRES. 


223 


richt gentleman, mem. gien ever there was ane — an* that kin’ly 
wi’ a’ cratur, baith man an’ beast ! A verra bairn cud guide him — 
ony gait but ane.” 

“ Anywhere but to his mother !” exclaimed Mrs Stewart, press- 
ing her handkerchief to her eyes, and sobbed as she spoke. 
“ — There is a child he is very fond of, I am told,” she added, 
recovering herself. 

“He likes a’ bairns,” returned Malcolm, “an’ they’re maistly 
a’ freen’ly wi’ him. But there’s but jist ae thing ’at maks life 
endurable till ’im. He suffers a hantle ( a great deal ) wi’ that 
puir back o’ his, an’ wi’ his breath tu whan he’s frichtit, for his 
hert gangs loupin like a sawmon in a bag-net. An’ he suffers a 
hantle, forbye, in his puir feeble min’, tryin’ to unnerstan’ the 
guid things ’at fowk tells him, an’ jaloosin’ it’s his ain wyte ’at he 
disna unnerstan’ them better ; an’ whiles he thinks himsel’ the 
child o’ sin and wrath, an’ that Sawtan has some special propriety 
in him, as the carritchis says — ” 

“ But,” interrupted the lady hurriedly, “you were going to tell 
me the one comfort he has.” 

“ It ’s his leeberty, mem — jist his leeberty ; to gang whaur he 
lists like the win’ ; to turn his face whaur he wull i’ the mornin’, 
an’ back again at nicht gien he likes ; to wan’er ” 

“ Back where ?” interrupted the mother, a little too eagerly. 

“ Whaur he likes, mem — I cudna say whaur wi’ ony certainty. 
But aih ! he likes to hear the sea moanin’, an’ watch the stars 
sheenin’ ! — There’s a sicht o’ oondevelopit releegion in him, as 
Maister Graham says ; an’ I div not believe ’at the Lord ’ll see 
him wranged mair nor ’s for ’s guid. But it’s my belief, gien ye 
took the leeberty frae the puir cratur, ye wad kill him.” 

“ Then you won’t help me !” she cried despairingly. “ They 
tell me you are an orphan yourself — and yet you will not take 
pity on a childless mother ! — worse than childless, for I had the 
loveliest boy once — he would be about your age now, and I have 
never had any comfort in life since I lost him. Give me my 
son, and I will bless you — love you.” 

As she spoke she rose, and approaching him gently, laid a hand 
on his shoulder. Malcolm trembled, but stood his mental ground. 

“ ’Deed, mem, I can an’ wull promise ye naething !” he said. 
“ Are ye to play a man fause ’cause he’s less able to tak care o’ 
himsel’ than ither fowk ? Gien I war sure ’at ye cud mak it up, 
an’ ’at he would be happy wi’ ye efterhin, it micht be anither 
thing; but excep’ ye garred him, ye cudna get him to bide lang 
eneuch for ye to try — an’ syne ( even then ) he wad dee afore ye hed 
convenced him. I doobt, mem, ye hae lost yer chance wi’ him, 


224 


MALCOLM , ; 


and maun du yer best to be content withoot him — HI promise 
ye this muckle, gien ye like — I s’ tell him what ye hae said ’upo 
the subjec’.” 

“ Much good that will be !” replied the lady, with ill-concealed 
scorn. 

“ Ye think he wadna unnerstan’ ’t ; but he unnerstan’s 
wonnerfu’.” 

“And you would come again, and tell me what he said?' 
she murmured, with the eager persuasiveness of reviving hope. 

“ Maybe ay, maybe no — I winna promise. — Hae ye ony answer 
to sen’ back to my lord’s letter, mem?” 

“ No ; I cannot write; I cannot even think. You have made 
me so miserable ! ” 

Malcolm lingered. 

“ Go, go,” said the lady dejectedly. “ Tell your master I am 
not well. I will write to-morrow. If you hear anything of my 
poor boy, do take pity upon me and come and tell me.” 

The stiffer partizan Malcolm appeared, the more desirable did 
it seem in Mrs Stewart’s eyes to gain him over to her side. 
Leaving his probable active hostility out of the question, she saw 
plainly enough that, if he were called on to give testimony as to 
the laird’s capacity, his witness would pull strongly against hei 
plans ; while, if the interests of such a youth were wrapped up 
in them, that fact in itself would prejudice most people in favour 
of them. 


CHAPTER XXX VL 

THE BLOW. 

“ Well, Malcolm,” said his lordship, when the youth reported 
himself, “ how’s Mrs Stewart?” 

“No ower weel pleased, my lord,” answered Malcolm. 

“ What ! — you have n’t been refusing to ?” 

“ Deed hev I, my lord !” 

“ Tut ! tut ! — Have you brought me any message from her?’* 
He spoke rather angrily. 

“ Nane but that she wasna weel, an’ wad write the morn.” 

The marquis thought for a few moments. 

“ If I make a personal matter of it, MacPhail 1 mean— * 

you won’t refuse me if I ask a personal favour of you?” 


THE BLOW. 


225 


* I maun ken what it is afore I say onything, my lord.” 

“You may trust me not to require anything you couldn’t 
undertake.” 

“ There micht be twa opingons, my lord.” 

“ You young boor ! What is the world coming to ? By Jove 1” 

“ As far ’s I can gang wi’ a clean conscience, I’ll gang, — no ae 
step ayont,” said Malcolm. 

“ You mean to say your judgment is a safer guide than mine ?” 

“ No, my lord; I micht weel follow yer lordship’s jeedgment, 
but gien there be a conscience i’ the affair, it’s my ain conscience 
I’m bun’ to follow, an’ no yer lordship’s, or ony ither man’s. 
Suppose the thing ’at seemed richt to yer lordship, seemed wrang 
to me, what wad ye hae me du than?” 

“ Do as I told you, and lay the blame on me.” 

“ Na, my lord, that winna haud : I bude to du what I thoucht 
richt, an’ lay the blame upo’ naebody, whatever cam o’ ’t.” 

“ You young hypocrite ! Why did n’t you tell me you meant to 
set up for a saint before I took you into my service?” 

“ ’Cause I had nae sic intention, my lord. Surely a body 
micht ken himsel’ nae sant, an’ yet like to haud his han’s clean !” 

“What did Mrs Stewart tell you she wanted of you?” asked 
the marquis almost fiercely, after a moment’s silence. 

“ She wantit me to get the puir laird to gang back till her ; 
but I sair misdoobt, for a’ her fine words, it ’s a closed door, gien 
it bena a lid, she wad hae upon him ; an’ I wad suner be hangt 
nor hae a thoom i’ that haggis.” 

“ Why should you doubt what a lady tells you?” 

“ I wadna be ower ready, but I hae hard things, ye see, an’ 
bude to be upo’ my gaird.” 

“ Well, I suppose, as you are a personal friend of the idiot ” 

His lordship had thought to sting him, and paused for a mo- 
ment ; but Malcolm’s manner revealed nothing except waiting 
watchfulness. 

“ — I must employ some one else to get a hold of the fellow for 
her,” he concluded. 

“Ye winna du that, my lord,” cried Malcolm, in a tone of 
entreaty ; but his master chose to misunderstand him. 

“ Who’s to prevent me, I should like to know?” he said. 

Malcolm accepted the misinterpretation involved, and answered 
— but calmly : 

“ Me, my lord. /wull. At ony rate, I s’ du my best” 

“ Upon my word ! ” exclaimed Lord Lossie, “ you presume 
sufficiently on my good nature, young man ! ” 

“Hear me ae moment, my lord,” returned Malcolm. “I’ve 


226 


MALCOLM. 


been turnin' 't ower i’ my min’, an’ I see, plain as the daylicht, 
that I’m bun’, bein’ yer lordship’s servan’ an’ trustit by yer lord- 
ship, to say that to yersel’ the whilk I was nowise bun’ to say to 
Mistress Stewart. Sae, at the risk o’ angerin’ ye, I maun tell yer 
lordship, wi’ a’ respec’, ’at gien I can help it, there sail no ban’, 
gentle or semple, be laid upo’ the laird against his ain wull.” 

The marquis was getting tired of the contest. He was angry 
too, and none the less that he felt Malcolm was in the right. 

“ Go to the devil you booby I” he said — even more in im- 
patience than in wrath. 

“I’m thinkin’ I needna budge,” retorted Malcolm, angry also. 

“ What do you mean by that insolence?” 

“ I mean, my lord, that to gang will be to gang frae him. He 
canna be far frae yer lordship’s lug this meenute.” 

All the marquis’s gathered annoyance broke out at last in rage. 
He started from his chair, made three strides to Malcolm, and 
struck him in the face. Malcolm staggered back till he was 
brought up by the door. 

“ Hoot, my lord ! ” he exclaimed, as he sought his blue 
cotton handkerchief, “ ye sudna hae dune that : ye’ll blaud the 
carpet ! ” 

“ You precious idiot ! ” cried his lordship, already repenting 
the deed ; “ why did n’t you defend yourself? ” 

“ The quarrel was my ain, an’ I cud du as I likit, my lord.” 

“And why should you like to take a blow? Not to lift a 
hand, even to defend yourself ! ” said the marquis, vexed both 
with Malcolm and with himself. 

“ Because I saw I was i’ the wrang, my lord. The quarrel 
was o’ my ain makin’ : I hed no richt to lowse my temper an* 
be impident. Sae I didna daur defen’ mysel’. An’ I beg yer 
lordship’s pardon. But dinna ye du me the wrang to imaigine, 
my lord, ’cause I took a flewet (blow) in guid pairt whan I kent 
mysel’ i’ the wrang, ’at that’s hoo I wad cairry mysel’ gien ’twas 
for the puir laird. Faith ! I s’ gar ony man ken a differ there ! ” 

“ Go along with you — and do n’t show yourself till you ’re fit to 
be seen. I hope it ’ll be a lesson to you.” 

“ It wull, my lord,” said Malcolm. “ But,” he added, “ there 
was nae occasion to gie me sic a dirdum : a word wad hae pitten 
me mair i’ the wrang.” 

So saying, he left the room, with his handkerchief to his face. 

The marquis was really sorry for the blow, chiefly because 
Malcolm, without a shadow of pusillanimity, had taken it so 
quietly. Malcolm would, however, have had very much more 
the worse of it had he defended himself, for his master had been 


THE BLOW. 


22 7 


a bruiser in his youth, and neither his left hand nor his right arm 
had yet forgot their cunning so far as to leave him less than a 
heavy overmatch for one unskilled, whatever his strength or 
agility. 

For some time after he was gone, the marquis paced up and 
down the room, feeling strangely and unaccountably uncomfort- 
able. 

“ The great lout ! ” he kept saying to himself ; “ why did he 
let me strike him ? ” 

Malcolm went to his grandfather’s cottage. In passing the 
window, he peeped in. The old man was sitting with his bag- 
pipes on his knees, looking troubled. When he entered, he held 
out his arms to him. 

“Tere ’ll pe something cone wrong with you, Malcolm, my 
son ! ” he cried. “ You’ll pe hafing a hurt ! She knows it. She 
has it within her, though she couldn’t chust see it. Where is 
it?” 

As he spoke he proceeded to feel his head and face. 

“ God pless her sowl 1 you are plooding, Malcolm I ” he cried 
the same moment. 

“ It’s naething to greit aboot, daddy. It’s hardly man nor the 
flype o’ a sawmon’s tail.” 

“ Put who ’ll pe tone it ? ” asked Duncan angrily. 

“ Ow, the maister gae me a bit flewet ! ” answered Malcolm 
with indifference. 

“ Where is he ? * cried the piper, rising in wrath. " Take her 
to him, Malcolm. She will stap him. She will pe killing him. 
She will trife her turk into his wicked pody.” 

“ Na, na, daddy,” said Malcolm ; “we hae hed eneuch o’ 
durks a’ready ! ” 

“Tat you haf tone it yourself, ten, Malcolm? My prave 
poy ! ” 

“ No, daddy ; I took my licks like a man, for I deserved 
them.” 

“ Deserfed to pe peaten, Malcolm — to pe peaten like a tog ? 
Ton’t tell her tat ! Ton’t preak her heart, my poy.” 

« It wasna that muckle, daddy. I only telled him auld Horny 
was at ’s lug.” 

“ And she’ll make no toubt it was true,” cried Duncan, emerg- 
ing sudden from his despondency. 

“ Ay, sae he was, only I had nae richt to say ’t." 

“Put you striked him pack, Malcolm? Ton’t say you tidn’t 
gif him pack his plow. Ton’t tell it to her, Malcolm 1 ” 

“ Hoo cud I hit my maister, an’ mysel’ i’ the *vrang, daddy ? ” 


228 


MALCOLM. 


“ Then she *11 must to it herself/’ said Duncan quietly, and, 
with the lips compressed of calm decision, turned towards the 
door, to get his dirk from the next room. 

“ Bide ye still, daddy,” said Malcolm, laying hold of his arm, 
“an* sit ye doon till ye hear a’ aboot it first.” # 

Duncan yielded, for the sake of better instruction in the 
circumstances ; over the whole of which Malcolm now went. 
But before he came to a close, he had skilfully introduced and 
enlarged upon the sorrows and sufferings and dangers of the laird, 
so as to lead the old man away from the quarrel, dwelling 
especially on the necessity of protecting Mr Stewart from the 
machinations of his mother. Duncan listened to all he said 
with marked sympathy. 

“ An’ gien the markis daur to cross me in ’t,” said Malcolm at 
last, as he ended, “ lat him leuk till himsel’, for it’s no at a buffet 
or twa I wad stick, gien the puir laird was intill ’t.” 

This assurance, indicative of a full courageous intent on the 
part of his grandson, for whose manliness he was jealous, gTeatly 
served to quiet Duncan ; and he consented at last to postpone 
all quittance, in the hope of Malcolm’s having the opportunity of 
a righteous quarrel for proving himself no coward. His wrath 
gradually died away, until at last he begged his boy to take his 
pipes, that he might give him a lesson. Malcolm made the 
attempt, but found it impossible to fill the bag with his swollen 
and cut lips, and had to beg his grandfather to play to him in- 
stead. He gladly consented, and played until bed-time ; when, 
having tucked him up, Malcolm went quietly to his own room, 
avoiding supper and the eyes of Mrs Courthope together. He 
fell asleep in a moment, and spent a night of perfect oblivion, 
dreamless of wizard lord or witch lady. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

THE CUTTER. 

Some days passed during which Malcolm contrived that no one 
should see him : he stole down to his grandfather’s early in the 
morning, and returned to his own room at night. Duncan told 
the people about that he was not very well, but would be all 
better in a day or two. It was a time of jubilation to the bard, 
and he cheered his grandson’s retirement with music, and with 
wild stories of highland lochs and moors, chanted or told. 


THE CUTTER . 


229 


Malcolm’s face was now much better, though the signs of the 
blow were still plain enough upon it, when a messenger came 
one afternoon to summon him to the marquis’s presence. 

“ Where have you been sulking all this time ? ” was his 
masters greeting. 

“ I havena been sulkin’, my lord,” answered Malcolm. " Yer 
lordship tauld me to haud oot o’ the gait till I was fit to be seen, 
an’ no a sowl has set an ee upo’ me till this verra moment ’at yer 
lordship has me in yer ain.” 

“ Where have you been then ? ” 

“ I’ my ain room at nicht, and doon at my gran'father’s as 
lang’s fowk was aboot — wi’ a bit dauner {stroll) up the burn i’ 
the mirk.” 

“ You couldn’t encounter the shame of being seen with such a 
face — eh ? ” 

“ It micht ha’ been thoucht a disgrace to the tane or the 
tilher o’ ’s, my lord — maybe to baith.” 

“ If you don’t learn to curb that tongue of yours, it will bring 
you to worse.” 

“ My lord, I confessed my faut, and I pat up wi’ the blow. 
But if it hadna been that I was i’ the wrang — weel, things micht 
hae differt” 

“ Hold your tongue, I tell you. You’re an honest, good 
fellow, and I’m sorry I struck you. There ! ” 

“ I thank yer lordship.” 

“ I sent for you because I’ve just heard from Aberdeen that 
the boat is on her way round. You must be ready to take 
charge of her the moment she arrives.” 

“ I wull be that, my lord. It doesna shuit me at a’ to be sae 
lang upo’ the solid : I’m like a cowt upon a toll-ro’d.” 

1 he next morning he got a telescope, and taking with him his 
dinner of bread and cheese, and a book in his pocket, went up 
to the Temple of the Winds, to look out for the boat. Every 
few minutes he swept the offing, but morning and afternoon 
passed, and she did not appear. The day’s monotony was 
broken only by a call from Demon. Malcolm looked landwards, 
and spied his mistress below amongst the trees, but she never 
looked in his direction. 

He had just become aware of the first dusky breath of the 
twilight, when a tiny sloop appeared, rounding the Deid Heid, as 
they called the promontory which closed in the bay on the east. 
The sun was setting, red and large, on the other side of the 
Scaurnose, and filled her white sails with a rosy dye, as she came 
stealing round in a fair soft wind. The moon hung over her, 


230 


MALCOLM. 


thin, and pale, and ghostly, with hardly shine enough to show 
that it was indeed she, and not the forgotten scrap of a torn up 
cloud. As she passed the point and turned towards the harbour, 
the warm amethystine hue suddenly vanished from her sails, and 
she looked white and cold, as if the sight of the Death’s Head 
had scared the blood out of her. 

“ It ’s hersel’ I ” cried Malcolm in delight. “ Aboot the size 
o’ a muckle herrin’ boat, but nae mair like ane than Lady 
Elorimel ’s like Meg Partan ! It ’ll be jist gran’ to hae a cratur 
sae near leevin’ to guide an’ tak yer wull o’ ! I had nae idea she 
was gaein’ to be onything like sae bonny. I’ll no be fit to man- 
age her in a squall though. I maun hae anither han’. An’ I 
winna hae a laddie aither. It maun be a grown man, or I winna 
tak in han’ to haud her abune the watter. I wull no. I s’ hae 
Blue Peter himsel’ gien I can get him. Eh ! jist luik at her — 
wi’ her bit gaff-tappie set, and her jib an a’, booin’ an’ booin’, an* 
cornin’ on ye as gran’ ’s ony bom leddy ! ” 

He shut up his telescope, ran down the hill, unlocked the 
private door at its foot, and in three or four minutes was waiting 
her on the harbour-wall 

She was a little cutter — and a lovely show to eyes capable of 
the harmonies of shape and motion. She came walking in, as 
the Partan, whom Malcolm found on the pierhead, remarked, 
“like a leddy closin’ her parasol as she cam.” Malcolm jumped 
on board, and the two men who had brought her round, gave up 
their charge. 

She was full-decked, with a dainty little cabin. Her planks 
were almost white : there was not a board in her off which one 
might not, as the Partan expanded the common phrase, “ ait his 
parritch, an’ never fin’ a mote in ’s mou’.” Her cordage was all 
so clean, her standing rigging so taut, everything so shipshape, 
that Malcolm was in raptures. If the burn had only been 
navigable so that he might have towed the graceful creature 
home and laid her up under the very walls of the House 1 It 
would have perfected the place in his eyes. He made her snug 
for the night, and went to report her arrival. 

Great was Lady Florimel’s jubilation. She would have set out 
on a “ coasting voyage,” as she called it, the very next day, but 
her father listened to Malcolm. 

“Ye see, my lord,” said Malcolm, “ I maun ken a’ aboot her 
afore I daur tak ye oot in her. An’ I canna unnertak’ to man* 
age her my lane. Ye maun jist gie me anither man wi’ me.” 

“ Get one,” said the marquis. 

Early in the morning, therefore, Malcolm went to Scaurnose, 


THE TWO DOGS. 


231 


and found Blue Peter amongst his nets. He could spare a day 
or two, and would join him. They returned together, got the 
cutter into the offing, and, with a westerly breeze, tried her every 
way. She answered her helm with readiness, rose as light as a 
bird, made a good board, and seemed every way a safe boat. 

“She’s the bonniest craft ever lainched!” said Malcolm, 
ending a description of her behaviour and qualities rather too 
circumstantial for his master to follow. 

They were to make their first trip the next morning — eastward, 
if the wind should hold, landing at a certain ancient ruin on the 
coast, two or three miles from Portlossie. 


CHAPTER XXX VI I L 

THE TWO DOGS. 

Lady Florimel’s fancy was so full of the expected pleasure, that 
she woke soon after dawn. She rose and anxiously drew aside 
a curtain of her window. The day was one of God’s odes — 
written for men. Would that the days of our human autumn 
were as calmly grand, as gorgeously hopeful as the days that 
lead the aging year down to the grave of winter ! If our white 
hairs were sunlit from behind like those radiance-bordered 
clouds ; if our air were as pure as this when it must be as cold ; 
if the falling at last of longest-cherished hopes did but, like that 
of the forest leaves, let in more of the sky, more of the infinite 
possibilities of the region of truth which is the matrix of fact ; 
we should go marching down the hill of life like a battered but 
still bannered army on its way home. But alas ! how often we 
rot, instead of march, towards the grave ! “ If he be not rotten 
before he die,” said Hamlet’s absolute grave-digger. — If the year 
was dying around Lady Florimel, as she looked, like a deathless 
sun from a window of the skies, it was dying at least with dignity. 

The sun was still revelling in the gift of himself. A thin blue 
mist went up to greet him. like the first of the smoke from the 
altars of the morning. The fields lay yellow below; the rich 
colours of decay hung heavy on the woods, and seemed to clothe 
them as with the trappings of a majestic sorrow ; but the spider- 
webs sparkled with dew, and the gossamer films floated thick in 
the level sunbeams. It was a great time for the spiders, those 
visible Deaths of the insect race. 

The sun, like a householder leaving his house for a time, wa? 


232 


MALCOLM. 


burning up a thousand outworn things before he went ; hence 
the smoke of the dying hearth of summer was going up to the 
heavens ; but there was a heart of hope left, for, when farthest 
away, the sun is never gone, and the snow is the earth’s blanket 
against the frost But, alas, it was not Lady Florimel who 
thought these things ! Looking over her shoulder, and seeing 
both what she can and what she cannot see, I am having a 
think to myself. 

“ Which it is an offence to utter in the temple of Art !” cry 

the critics. 

Not against Art, I think: but if it be an offence to the wor- 
shipper of Art, let him keep silence before his goddess ; for me, 
I am a sweeper of the floors in the temple of Life, and his 
goddess is my mare, and shall go in the dust-cart ; if I find a 
jewel as I sweep, I will fasten it on the curtains of the doors, nor 
heed if it should break the fall of a fold of the drapery. 

Below Lady Florimel’s oriel window, under the tall bridge, the 
burn lay dark in a deep pool, with a slow-revolving eddy, in which 
one leaf, attended by a streak of white froth, was performing solemn 
gyrations ; away to the north the great sea was merry with waves 
and spotted with their broken crests ; heaped against the horizon, 
it looked like a blue hill dotted all over with feeding sheep ; but, to- 
day, she never thought why the waters were so busy — to what end 
they foamed and ran, flashing their laughter in the face of the sun : 
the mood of nature was in harmony with her own, and she felt no 
need to discover any higher import in its merriment. How could 
she, when she sought no higher import in her own — had not as 
yet once suspected that every human gladness — even to the most 
transient flicker of delight — is the reflex — from a potsherd it may 
be — but of an eternal sun of joy? — Stay, let me pick up the 
gem : every faintest glimmer, all that is not utter darkness, is 
from the shining face of the Father of Lights. — Not a breath 
stirred the ivy leaves about her window ; but out there, on the 
wide blue, the breezes were frolicking ; and in the harbour the 
new boat must be tugging to get free ! She dressed in haste, 
called her stag-hound, and set out the nearest way, that is by the 
town-gate, for the harbour. She must make acquaintance with 
her new plaything. 

Mrs Catanach in her nightcap looked from her upper window 
as she passed, like a great spider from the heart of its web, and 
nodded significantly after her, with a look and a smile such as 
might mean, that for all her good looks she might have the heart- 
ache some day. But she was to have the first herself, for that 
moment her ugly dog, now and always with the look of being 


THE TWO DOGS. 


*33 


fresh from an ash-pi', rushed from somewhere, and laid hold of 
Lady Florimers dress, frightening her so, that she gave a cry. 
Instantly her own dog, which had been loitering behind, came 
tearing up, five lengths at a bound, and descended like an angel 
of vengeance upon the offensive animal, which would have fled, 
but found it too >ace. Opening his huge jaws, Demon took him 
across the flanks, much larger than his own, as if he had been a 
Tabbit. Hvs howls of agony brought Mrs Catanach out in her 
petticoat^. She flew at the hound, which Lady Florimel was in 
vain attempting to drag from the cur, and seized him by the throat. 

“ Take care ; he is dangerous !” cried the girl. 

Finding she had no power upon him, Mrs Catanach forsook 
him, and, in despairing fury, rushed at his mistress. Demon saw 
it with one flaming eye, left the cur — which, howling hideously, 
dragged his hind quarters after him into the house — and sprang 
at the woman. Then indeed was Lady Florimel terrified, for 
she knew the savage nature of the animal when roused. Truly, 
with his eyes on fire as now, his long fangs bared, the bristles on 
his back erect, and his moustache sticking straight out, he might 
well be believed, much as civilization might have done for him, 
a wolf after all ! His mistress threw herself between them, and 
flung her arms tight round his neck. 

“ Run, woman 1 Run for your life 1” she shrieked. “ I can’t 
hold him long.” 

Mrs Catanach fled, cowed by terror. Her huge legs bore her 
huge body, a tragi-comic spectacle, across the street to her open 
door. She had hardly vanished, flinging it to behind her, when 
Demon broke from his mistress, and going at the door as if 
launched from a catapult, burst it open and disappeared also. 

Lady F’orimel gave a shriek of horror, and darted after him. 

The *ame moment the sound of Duncan’s pipes as he issued 
from the town-gate, at which he always commenced instead of 
ending his reveille now, reached her, and bethinking herself of 
her inability to control the hound, she darted again from the cot- 
tage, and flew to meet him, crying aloud, — 

“MrMacPhail! Duncan! Duncan! stop your pipes and come 
here directly.” 

“ And who may pe calling me?” asked Duncan, who had not 
thoroughly distinguished the voice through the near clamour of 
his instrument. 

She laid her hand trembling with apprehension on his arm, 
and began pulling him along. 

“ It’s me, — Lady Florimel, 1 * she said. “ Come here directly^ 
Demon has got into a house and is worrying a woman.” 


234 


MALCOLM. 


“ Cod haf mercy !” cried Duncan. “ Take her pipes, my laty, 
for fear anything paad should happen to tern.” 

She led him hurriedly to the door. But ere he had quite 
crossed the threshold he shivered and drew back. 

“ Tis is an efil house,” he said. “ She ’ll not can co in.” 

A great floundering racket was going on above, mingled with 
growls and shrieks, but there was no howling. 

“ Call the dog then. He will mind you, perhaps,” she cried 
— knowing what a slow business an argument with Duncan was 
— and flew to the stair. 

“Temon! Temon!” cried Duncan, with agitated voice. 

Whether the dog thought his friend was in trouble next, I can- 
not tell, but down he came that instant, with a single bound 
from the top of the stair, right over his mistress’s head as she was 
running up, and leaping out to Duncan, laid a paw upon each of 
his shoulders, panting with out-lolled tongue. 

But the piper staggered back, pushing the dog from him. 

“ It is plood !” he cried ; “ ta efil woman’s plood !” 

“ Keep him out, Duncan dear,” said Lady Florimel. “ I will 
go and see. There 1 he’ll be up again if you don’t mind ! 

Very reluctant, yet obedient, the bard laid hold of the growling 
animal by the collar ; and Lady Florimel was just turning to 
finish her ascent of the stair and see what dread thing had come 
to pass, when, to her great joy, she heard Malcolm’s voice, calling 
from the farther end of thp street — 

“ Hey, daddy ! What’s happened ’at I dinna hear the pipes ? ” 

She rushed out, the pipes dangling from her hand, so that the 
drone trailed on the ground behind her. 

“ Malcolm ! Malcolm ! ” she cried ; and he was by her side in 
scarcely more time than Demon would have taken. 

Hurriedly and rather incoherently, she told him what had taken 
place. He sprang up the stair, and she followed. 

In the front garret — with a dormer-window looking down into 
the street — stood Mrs Catanach facing the door, with such a 
malignant rage in her countenance that it looked demoniacal. 
Her dog lay at her feet with his throat torn out. 

As soon as she saw Malcolm, she broke into a fury of vulgar 
imprecation — most of it quite outside the pale of artistic record. 

“Hoots! for shame, Mistress Catanach 1” he cried, “Here’s 
my leddy ahin’ me, hearin’ ilka word ! ” 

“ Deil stap her lugs wi’ brunstane ! What but a curse wad 
she hae frae me ? I sweir by God I s’ gar her pey for this, or my 
names no ” 

She stopped suddenly. 


THE TWO DOGS. 


235 


“ I thocht as muckle,” said Malcolm with a keen look. 

“Ye’ll think twise, ye deil’s buckie, or ye think richt ! Wha 
are ye to think ? What sud my name be but Bawby Catanach ? 
Ye’re unco upsettin’ sin’ ye turned my leddy’s flunky ! Sorrow 
tak ye baith ! My dawtit Beauty ! — worriet by that hell-tyke o’ 
hers ! ” 

“ Gien ye gang on like that, the markis ’ll hae ye drummed 
oot o’ the toon or twa days be ower,” said Malcolm. 

“ Wull he than ? ” she returned with a confident sneer, showing 
all the teeth she had left. “ Ye’ll be far ben wi’ the markis, nae 
doobt ! An’ yon donnert auld deevil ye ca’ yer gran’father ’ill be 
fain eneuch to be drummer, I’ll sweir. Care ’s my case ! ” 

“ My leddy, she’s ower ill-tongued for you to hearken till,” 
said Malcolm, turning to Florimel who stpod in the door white 
and trembling. “ Jist gang doon, an’ tell my gran’father to sen’ 
the dog up. There’s surely some gait o’ garrin’ her haud her 
tongue ! ” 

Mrs Catanach threw a terrified glance towards Lady Florimel. 

“ Indeed I shall do nothing of the kind ! ” replied FlorimeL 
“ For shame ! ” 

“ Hoots, my leddy ! ” returned Malcolm ; “I only said it to try 
the eflec’ o’ ’t. It seems no that ill.” 

“ Ye son o’ a deevil’s soo ! ” cried the woman ; “Is’ hae 
amen’s o’ ye for this, gien I sud ro’st my ain hert to get it.” 

“ ’Deed, but ye’re duin that fine a’ready ! That foul brute o’ 
yours has gotten his arles ( earnest ) tu. I wonner what he thinks 
o’ sawmon-troot noo ! — Eh, mem ? ” 

“ Have done, Malcolm,” said Florimel. “ I am ashamed of 
you. If the woman is not hurt, we have no business in her 
house.” 

“ Hear till her ! ” cried Mrs Catanach contemptuously. “ The 
woman ! ” 

But Lady Florimel took no heed. She had already turned and 
was going down the stair. Malcolm followed in silence ; nor did 
another word from Mrs Catanach overtake them. 

Arrived in the street, Florimel restored his pipes to Duncan — 
who, letting the dog go, at once proceeded to fill the bag — and, 
instead of continuing her way to the harbour, turned back, 
accompanied by Malcolm, Demon, and Lady Stronach’s Strath- 
spey. 

“ What a horrible woman that is ! ” she said with a shudder. 

“ Ay is she ; but I doobt she wad be waur gien she didna brak 
oot that gait whiles,” rejoined Malcolm. 

“ How do you mean ? ” 


MALCOLM. 


£36 

“ It frichts fowk at her, an’ maybe sometimes pits ’t oot o* her 
pooer to du waur. Gien ever she seek to mak it up wi* ye, my 
leddy, I wad hae little to say till her, gien I was you.” 

“ What could I have to say to a low creature like that ? ” 

“ Ye wadna ken what she micht be up till, or hoo she micht 
set aboot it, my leddy. I wad hae ye mistrust her a’thegither. 
My daddy has a fine moral nose for vermin, an’ he canna bide 
her, though he never had a glimp o’ the fause face o’ her, an’ in 
trowth never spak till her.” 

“ I will tell my father of her. A woman like that is not fit to 
live amongst civilized people.” 

“ Ye’re richt there, my leddy ; but she wad only gang some 
ither gait amo’ the same. Of coorse ye maun tell yer father, but 
she’s no fit for him to tak ony notice o’.” 

As they sat at breakfast, Florimel did tell her father. His first 
emotion, however — at least the first he showed — was vexation 
with herself. 

“You must not be going out alone — and at such ridiculous 
hours,” he said. “ I shall be compelled to get you a governess.” 

“ Really, papa,” she returned, “ I don’t see the good of having 
a marquis for a father, if I can’t go about as safe as one of the 
fisher-children. And I might just as well be at school, if I’m 
not to do as I like.” 

“ What if the dog had turned on you ! ” he said. 

“ If he dared ! ” exclaimed the girl, and her eyes flashed. 

Her father looked at her for a moment, said to himself— 
“ There spoke a Colonsay ! ” and pursued the subject no further. 

When they passed Mrs Catanach’s cottage an hour after, on 
their way to the harbour, they saw the blinds drawn down, as if 
a dead man lay within : according to after report, she had the 
brute already laid out like a human being, and sat by the bedside 
awaiting a coffin which she had ordered of Watty Witherspail. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

COLONSAY CASTLE. 

The day continued lovely, with a fine breeze. The whole sky 
and air and sea were alive — with moving clouds, with wind, with 
waves flashing in the sun. As they stepped on board amidst the 
little crowd gathered to see, Lady Florimel could hardly keep ha 


COLONSA Y CASTLE. 


2.37 

delight Mithin the bounds of so-called propriety. It was all she 
could do to restrain herself from dancing on the little deck half- 
swept by the tiller. The boat of a schooner which lay at the quay 
towed them out of the harbour. Then the creature spread her wings 
like a bird — main-sail and gaff-topsail, staysail and jib — leaned 
away to leeward, and seemed actually to bound over the waves. 
Malcolm sat at the tiller, and Blue Peter watched the canvas. 

Lady Florimel turned out to be a good sailor, and her enjoy- 
ment was so contagious as even to tighten certain strings about 
her father’s heart which had long been too slack to vibrate with 
any simple gladness. Her questions were incessant — first about 
the sails and rigging, then about the steering ; but when Malcolm 
proceeded to explain how the water re-acted on the rudder, she 
declined to trouble herself with that. 

“ Let me steer first,” she said, “ and then tell me how things 
work.” 

“That is whiles the best plan,” said Malcolm. " Jist lay yer 
hail’ upo’ the tiller, my leddy, an’ luik oot at yon pint they ca’ 
the Deid Heid yonner. Ye see, whan I turn the tiller this gait, 
her heid fa’s aff frae the pint ; an’ whan I turn’t this ither gait, 
her heid turns till ’t again : haud her heid jist aboot a twa yairds 
like aff o’ V’ 

Florimel was more delighted than ever when she felt her own 
hand ruling the cutter — so overjoyed indeed, that, instead of 
steering straight, she would keep playing tricks with the rudder, 
— fretting the mouth of the sea-palfrey, as it were. Every now 
and then Malcolm had to expostulate. 

“Noo, my leddy, caw canny. Dinna steer sae wull. Haud 
her steddy. — My lord, wad ye jist say a word to my leddy, or I’ll 
be forced to tak the tiller frae her.” 

But by and by she grew weary of the attention required, and, 
giving up the helm, began to seek the explanation of its influence, 
in a way that delighted Malcolm. 

“Ye’ll mak a guid skipper some day,” he said : “ye spier the 
richt questions, an’ that’s ’maist as guid’s kennin’ the richt 
answers.” 

At length she threw herself on the cushions Malcolm had 
brought for her, and, while her father smoked his cigar, gazed in 
silence at the shore. Here, instead of sands, low rocks, in- 
finitively broken and jagged, filled all the tidal space — a region 
of ceaseless rush and shattered waters. High cliffs of gray and 
brown rock, orange and green with lichens here and there, and 
in summer crowned with golden furze, rose behind — untouched by 
the ordinary tide, but at high ivater lashed by the waves of a storm. 


238 


MALCOLM. 


Beyond the headland which they were fast nearing, the cliffs and 
the sea met at half-tide. 

The moment they rounded it — 

“Luik there, my lord,” cried Malcolm, “ — there’s Colonsay 
Castel, ’at yer lordship gets yer name, I’m thinkin’, an’, ony gait, 
ane o’ yer teetles frae. It maun be mony a hunner year sin’ ever 
Colonsay baid intill ’t !” 

Well might he say so ! for they looked but saw nothing — only 
cliff beyond cliff rising from a white-fringed shore. Not a broken 
tower, not a ragged battlement invaded the horizon ! 

“ There’s nothing of the sort there ! ” said Lady Florimel. 

“ Ye maunna luik for tooer or pinnacle, my leddy, for nane 
will ye see: their time’s lang ower. But jist tak the sea-face o’ 
the scaur (cliff) i’ yer ee, an’ traivel alang ’t oontil ye come till a 
bit ’at luiks like mason-wark. It scarce rises abune the scaur in 
ony but ae pairt, an’ there it’s but a feow feet o’ a wa’.” 

Following his direction, Lady Florimel soon found the ruin. 
The front of a projecting portion of the cliff was faced, from the 
very water’s edge as it seemed, with mason-work ; while on its 
side, the masonry rested here and there upon jutting masses of 
the rock, serving as corbels or brackets, the surface of the rock 
itself completing the wall-front. Above, grass-grown heaps and 
mounds, and one isolated bit of wall pierced with a little window, 
like an empty eyesocket with no skull behind it, was all that was 
visible from the sea of the structure which had once risen lordly 
on the crest of the cliff. 

“ It is poor for a ruin even !” said Lord Lossie. 

“ But jist consider hoo auld the place is, my lord ! — as auld as 
the time o’ the sea-rovin’ Danes, they say. Maybe it’s aulder nor 
King Alfred ! Ye maun regaird it only as a foondation ; there’s 
stanes eneuch lyin’ aboot to shaw ’at there maun hae been a gran’ 
supperstructur on ’t ance. I some think it has been ance dis- 
conneckit frae the lan’, an’ jined on by a draw-biig. Mony a 
lump o’ rock an’ castel thegither has rowed doon the brae upon a’ 
sides, an’ the ruins may weel hae filled up the gully at last 
It’s a wonnerfu’ auld place, my lord.” 

“ What would you do with it if it were yours, Malcolm ? ” asked 
Lady Florimel. 

“ I wad spen’ a my spare time patchin’ ’t up to gar ’t stan’ oot 
agane the wither. It’s crum’let awa’ a heap sin’ I min’.” 

“ What would be the good of that ? A rickle of old stones ! ’* 
said the marquis. 

“ It’s a growth ’at there winna be mony mair like,” returned 
Malcolm. “ I wonner ’at yer lordship 1 ” 


COLONS A Y CASTLE. 


239 


He was now steering for the foot of the cliff. As they ap- 
proached, the ruin expanded and separated, grew more massy, 
and yet more detailed. Still it was a mere root clinging to the soil. 

“ Suppose you were Lord Lossie, Malcolm, what would you do 
with it?” asked Florimel, seriously, but with fun in her eyes. 

“ I wad win at the boddom o’ ’t first. 0 

“What do you mean by that?” 

“ Ye’ll see whan ye win in till ’t There ’s a heap o’ voutit places 
inside yon blin’ face. Du ye see yon wee bit squaur winnock ? 
That lats the licht in till ane o’ them. There may be vouts aneath 
vouts, for them ’at ye can win intill ’s half fu’ o’ yird an’ stanes. 
I wad hae a’ that cleart oot, an syne begin frae the verra foonda- 
tion, biggin’, an’ patchin’, an’ buttressin’ till I got it a’ as soun’ as 
a whunstane ; an’ whan I cam to the tap o’ the rock, there the 
castel sud tak to growin’ again ; an’ grow it sud, till there it stude, 
as near what it was as the wit an’ the han’ o’ man cud set it.” 

“ That would ruin a tolerably rich man,” said the marquis,. 

“ Ony gait it’s no the w’y fowk ruins themsel’s noo-a-days, my 
lord. They’ll pu’ doon an auld hoose ony day to save themsel’s 
blastin’-poother. There’s that gran’ place they ca’ Huntly Castel ! 
— a suckin’ bairn to this for age, but wi’ wa’s, they tell me, wad 
stan’ for thoosan’s o’ years : wad ye believe ’t ? there’s a sowlless 
chiel’ o’ a factor there biggin’ park-wa’s an’ a grainery oot o’ ’t, as 
gien ’twar a quarry o’ blue stane ! An’ what ’s ten times mair ex- 
terord’nar, there’s the Duke o’ Gordon jist lattin’ the gype tak ’s 
wull o’ the hoose o’ his grace’s ain forbears ! I wad maist as sune 
lat a man speyk ill o’ my daddy ! ” 

“ But this is past all rebuilding,” said his lordship. “It would 
be barely possible to preserve the remains as they are.” 

“ It wad be ill to du, my lord, ohn set it up again. But jist 
ihink what a gran’ place it wad be to bide in ! ” 

The marquis burst out laughing. 

“ A grand place for gulls and kittiwakes and sea-crows ! ” he 
said. “ But where is it, pray, that a fisherman like you gets such 
extravagant notions ? — How do you come to think of such things?” 

“ Thoucht’s free, my lord. Gien a thing be guid to think, what 
for sudna a fisher-lad think it ? I hae read a heap aboot auld 
castles an’ sic like i’ the history o’ Scotian’, an’ there’s mony an 
auld tale an’ ballant aboot them.— Jist luik there, my leddy : ye 
see yon awfu’ hole i’ the wa,’ wi’ the verra inside o’ the hill, like, 
rushin’ oot at it ? — I cud tell ye a fearfu’ tale aboot that same.” 

“ Do let us have it,” said Florimel eagerly, setting herself to 
listen. 

“ Better wait till we land,” said the marquis lazily. 


240 


MALCOLM, 


“ Ay, my lord ; we’re ower near the shore to begin a story.— 
Slack the mainsheet, Peter, an’ stan’ by the jib-doonhaul.— 
Dinna rise, my leddy; she'll be o’ the grim’ in anithermeenute.” 

Almost immediately followed a slight grating noise, which 
grew loud, and before one could say her speed had slackened, 
the cutter rested on the pebbles, with the small waves of the just 
turned tide flowing against her quarter. Malcolm was over- 
board in a moment. 

“ How the deuce are we to land here ? ” said the marquis. 

“Yes !” followed Florimel, half-risen on her elbow, “how the 
deuce are we to land here ? ” 

“ Hoot, my leddy ! ” said Malcolm, “ sic words ill become yer 
bonny mou\” 

The marquis laughed. 

“ I ask you how we are to get ashore ? ” said Florimel with 
grave dignity, though an imp was laughing in the shadows of 
her eyes. 

“ I’ll sune lat ye see that, my leddy,” answered Malcolm ; and 
leaning over the low bulwark he had her in his arms almost 
before she could utter an objection. Carrying her ashore like a 
child — indeed, to steady herself, she had put an arm round his 
shoulders — he set hei down on the shingle, and turning in the 
act, left her as if she had been a burden of nets, and waded back 
to the boat 

“And how, pray, am I to go?” asked the marquis. “Do 
you fancy you can carry me in that style ? ” 

“ Ow na, my lord ! that wadna be dignifeed for a man. J ist 
loup upo’ my back.” 

As he spoke he turned his broad shoulders, stooping. 

The marquis accepted the invitation, and rode ashore like a 
schoolboy, laughing merrily. 

They were in a little valley, open only to the sea, one bound- 
ary of which was the small promontory whereon the castle stood 
The side of it next them, of stone and live rock combined, rose 
perpendicular from the beach to a great height ; whence, to gain 
the summit, they had to go a little way back, and ascend by a 
winding path till they reached the approach to the castle from 
the landward side. 

“Noo, wad na this be a gran’ place to bide at, my lord?” 
said Malcolm, as they reached the summit — the marquis breath- 
less, Florimel fresh as a lark. “Jist see sic an outluik ! The 
verra place for pirates like the auld Danes ! Naething cud 
escape the sicht o’ them here. Yon’s the hills o’ Sutherlan’. 
Ye see yon ane like a cairn? that’s a great freen’ to the fisher- 


CO LONS A Y CASTLE. 


241 


fowl? to tell them whaur they are. Yon’s the laich co’st o’ 
Caithness. An’ yonner’s the north pole, only ye canna see sae 
far. Jist think, my lord, hoo gran’ wad be the blusterin’ blap o’ 
the win’ aboot the turrets, as ye stude at yer window on a winter’s 
day, luikin oot ower the gurly twist o’ the watters, the air fu’ o’ 
flichterin snaw, the cloods a mile thick abune yer heid, an’ no a 
leevin cratur but yer ain fowk nearer nor the fairm-toon ower the 
broo yonner ! ” 

“ I don’t see anything very attractive in your description,” said 
bis lordship. “And where,” he added, looking around him, 
" would be the garden ? ” 

“ What cud ye want wi’ a gairden, an’ the sea oot afore ye 
there ? The sea’s bonnier than ony gairden. A gairden’s maist 
aye the same, or it changes sae slow, wi’ the ae flooer gaein’ in, 
an’ the ither flooer cornin’ oot, ’at ye maist dinna nottice the odds. 
But the sea’s never twa days the same. Even lauchin’ she never 
lauchs twise'wi’ the same face, an’ whan she sulks, she has a 
hunner w’ys o’ sulkin’.” 

“And how would you get a carriage up here?” said the 
marquis. 

“ Fine that, my lord. There’s a ro’d up as far’s yon neuk. 
An’ for this broo, I wad clear awa the lowse stanes, an’ lat the 
nait’ral gerse grow sweet an’ fine, an’ turn a lot o’ bonny heelan’ 
sheep on till’t. I wad keep yon ae bit o’ whuns, for though 
they’re rouch i’ the leaf, they blaw sae gowden. Syne I wad 
gether a’ the bits o’ drains frae a’ sides, till I had a bonny stream 
o’ watter aff o’ the sweet corn-lan’, rowin’ doon here whaur we 
stan’, an’ ower to the caste! itsel’, an’ throu’ coort an’ kitchie, 
gurglin’ an’ rinnin’, an’ syne oot again an’ doon the face o’ the 
scaur, splash in’ an’ loupin’ like mad. I wad lea’ a’ the lave to 
Natur’ hersel’. It wad be a gran’ place, my lord ! An’ whan ye 
was tired o’ ’t, ye cud jist rin awa’ to Lossie Hoose, an’ hide ye 
i’ the how there for a cheenge. I wad like fine to hae the sortin’ 
o’ ’t for yer lordship.” 

“ I daresay ! ” said the marquis. 

“ Let’s find a nice place for our luncheon, papa, and then we 
can sit down and hear Malcolm’s story,” said FlorimeL 

“Dinna ye think, my lord, it wad be better to get the 
baskets up first ? ” interposed Malcolm. 

“ Yes, I think so. Wilson can help you.” 

“ Na, my lord ; he canna lea’ the cutter. The tide’s risin, an* 
she’s ower near the rocks.” 

“ Well, well ; we shan’t want lunch for an hour yet, so you can 
take your time.” 

O) 


242 


MALCOLM. 


“But ye maun tak tent, my lord, hoo ye gang amo’ the ruins. 
There’s awkward kin* o’ holes aboot thae vouts, an’ jist whaur 
ye think there’s nane. I dinna a’thegither like yer gaein' 
wantin’ me.” 

“ Nonsense ! Go along,” said the marquis. 

“ But I’m no jokin’,” persisted Malcolm. 

“Yes, yes; we’ll be careful,” returned his master impatiently, 
and Malcolm ran down the hill, but not altogether satisfied with 
the assurance. 


CHAPTER XL. 

THE DEIL’S WINNOCK. 

Florimel was disappointed, for she longed to hear Malcolm’s tale. 
But amid such surroundings it was not so very difficult to wait 
They set out to have a peep at the ruins, and choose a place for 
luncheon. 

From the point where they stood, looking seawards, the ground 
sunk to the narrow isthmus supposed by Malcolm to fill a cleft 
formerly crossed by a drawbridge, and, beyond it, rose again to 
the grassy mounds in which lay so many of the old bones of the 
ruined carcass. 

Passing along the isthmus, where on one side was a steep 
descent to the shore of the little bay, and on the other the live 
rock hewn away to wall, shining and sparkling with crystals of a 
clear irony brown, they next clambered up a rude ascent of solid 
rock, and so reached what had been the centre of the seaward 
portion of the castle. Here the^ came suddenly upon a small 
hole at their feet, going right down. Florimel knelt, and peep- 
ing in, saw the remains of a small spiral stair. The opening 
seemed large enough to let her through, and, gathering her gar- 
ments tight about her, she was half-way buried in the earth before 
her father, whose attention had been drawn elsewhere, saw what 
she was about. He thought she had fallen in, but her merry 
laugh reassured him, and ere he could reach her, she had screwed 
herself out of sight. Fie followed her in some anxiety, Dut, after 
a short descent, rejoined her in a small vaulted chamber, where 
she stood looking from the little square window Malcolm had 
pointed out to them as they neared the shore. The bare walls 
around them were of brown stone, wet with the drip of rains- and 
full of holes where the mortar had yielded and stones had faftcc 


THE DEWS WINNOCK. 


243 


out. Indeed the mortar had all but vanished ; the walls stood 
and the vaults hung chiefly by their own weight. By breaches in 
the walls, where once might have been doors, Florimel passed 
from one chamber to another and another, each dark, brown, 
vaulted, damp, and weather-eaten, while her father stood at the 
/ittle window she had left, listlessly watching the two men on the 
beach far below landing the lunch, and the rippled sea, and the 
cutter rising and falling with every wave of the flowing tide. 

At length Florimel found herself on the upper end of a steep- 
sloping ridge of hard, smooth earth, lying along the side of one 
chamber, and leading across to yet another beyond, which, unlike 
the rest, was full of light. The passion of exploration being by 
this time thoroughly roused in her, she descended the slope, half 
sliding, half creeping. When she thus reached the hole into the 
bright chamber, she almost sickened with horror, for the slope 
went off steeper, till it rushed, as it were, out of a huge gap in 
the wall of the castle, laying bare the void of space, and the gleam 
of the sea at a frightful depth below : if she had gone one foot 
further, she could not have saved herself from sliding out of the 
gap. It was the very breach Malcolm had pointed out to them 
from below, and concerning which he had promised them the 
terrible tale. She gave a shriek of terror, and laid hold of the 
broken wall. To heighten her dismay to the limit of mortal 
endurance, she found at the very first effort, partly, no doubt, 
from the paralysis of fear, that it was impossible to reascend ; 
and there she lay on the verge of the steeper slope, her head and 
shoulders in the inner of the two chambers, and the rest of her 
body in the outer, with the hideous vacancy staring at her. In 
a few moments it had fascinated her so that she dared not close 
her eyes lest it should leap upon her. The wonder was that she 
did not lose her consciousness, and fall at once to the bottom of 
the cliff. 

Her cry brought her father in terror to the top of the slope. 

“Are you hurt, child?” he cried, not seeing the danger she 
was in. 

“ It’s so steep, I can’t get up again,’* she said faintly. 

“I’ll soon get you up,” he returned cheerily, and began to 
descend. 

“Oh, papa !” she cried, “don’t come a step nearer. If you 
should slip, we should go to the bottom of the rock together. 

. Indeed, indeed, there is great danger ! Do run for Malcolm.” 

Thoroughly alarmed, yet mastering the signs of his fear, he 
enjoined her to keep perfectly still whiie he was gone, and 
hurried to the little window. Thence he shouted to the mea 


244 


MALCOLM, 


below, but in vain, for the wind prevented his voice from reach* 
ing them. He rushed from the vaults, and began to descend at 
the first practicable spot he could find, shouting as he went. 

The sound of his voice cheered Florimel a little, as she lay 
forsaken in her misery. Pier whole effort now was to keep her- 
self from fainting, and for this end, to abstract her mind from the 
terrors of her situation : in this she was aided by a new shock, 
which, had her position been a less critical one, would itself have 
caused her a deadly dismay. A curious little sound came to her, 
apparently from somewhere in the dusky chamber in which her 
head lay. She fancied it made by some little animal, and thought 
of the wild cats and otters of which Malcolm had spoken at' 
haunting the caves ; but, while the new fear mitigated the former, 
the greater fear subdued the less. It came a little louder, then 
again a little louder, growing like a hurried whisper, but without 
seeming to approach her. Louder still it grew, and yet was but 
an inarticulate whispering. Then it began to divide into some 
resemblance of articulate sounds. Presently, to her utter 
astonishment, she heard herself called by name. 

“ Lady Florimel 1 Lady Florimel ! ” said the sound plainly 
enough. 

“Who’s there?” she faltered, with her heart in her throat, 
hardly knowing whether she spoke or not. 

“ There’s nobody here,” answered the voice. “ I’m in my own 
bedroom at home, where your dog killed mine.” 

It was the voice of Mrs Catanach, but both words and tone 
were almost English. 

Anger, and the sense of a human presence, although an evil 
one, restored Lady Florimel’s speech. 

“ How dare you talk such nonsense?” she said. 

“ Don’t anger me again,” returned the voice. “ I tell you the 
truth. I’m sorry I spoke to your ladyship as I did this morning. 
It was the sight of my poor dog that drove me mad.” 

“ / couldn’t help it 1 tried to keep mine off him, as you 
know.” 

“ I do know it, my lady, and that’s why I beg your pardon.” 

“Then there’s nothing more to be said.” 

“Yes, there is, my lady : I want to make you some amends. 
I know more than most people, and I know a secret that some 
would give their ears for. Will you trust me?” 

“ I will hear what you’ve got to say.” 

“Well, I don’t care whether you believe me or not: I shall 
tell you nothing but the truth. What do you think of Malcolm 
MacPhail, my lady?” 


THE DEIHS WINNOCK. 


245 


u What do you mean by asking me such a question ?” 

“ Only to tell you that by birth he is a gentleman, and comes 
of an old family.” 

“ But why do you tell met” said FlorimeL “ What have / to 
do with it ? ” 

M Nothing, my lady — or hfmself either. / hold the handle of 
the business. But you needn’t think it’s from any favour for him ! 
I don’t care what comes of him. There’s no love lost between 
him and me. You heard yourself, this very day, how he abused 
both me and my poor dog who is now lying dead on the bed 
beside me ! ” 

“ Vou don’t expect me to believe such nonsense as that ! ” 
said Lady Florimel. 

There was no reply. The voice had departed ; and the 
terrors of her position returned with gathered force in the desola- 
tion of redoubled silence that closes around an unanswered 
question. A trembling seized her, and she could hardly per- 
suade herself that she was not slipping by slow inches down the 
incline. 

Minutes that seemed hours passed. At length she heard feet 
and voices, and presently her father called her name, but she 
was too agitated to reply except with a moan. A voice she was 
yet more glad to hear followed — the voice of Malcolm, ringing 
confident and clear. 

'* Haud awa’, my lord,” it said, “ an’ lat me come at her.” 

t% You’re not going down so!” said the marquis angrily. 
“ You’ll slip to a certainty, and send her to the bottom.” 

“ My lord,” returned Malcolm, “ I ken what I’m aboot, an’ ye 
dinna. I beg ’at ye’ll haud ootby, an’ no upset the lassie, for 
something maun depen’ upon hersel’. Jist gang awa’ back into 
that ither vout, my lord. I insist upo’ ’t.” 

His lordship obeyed, and Malcolm, who had been pulling off 
his boots as he spoke, now addressed Mair. 

“ Here, Peter ! ” he said, “ haud on to the tail o’ that rope 
like grim deith. — Na, I dinna want it roon’ me ; it’s to gang 
rocn’ her. But dinna ye haul, for it micht hurt her, an’ she’ll 
lippen to me and come up o’ hersel’. Dinna be feart, my bonny 
leddy : there’s nae danger — no ae grain. I’m cornin’.” 

With the rope in his hand, he walked down the incline, and 
kneeling by Florimel, close to the broken wall, proceeded to pass 
the rope under and round her waist, talking to her, as he did so, 
in the tone of one encouraging a child. 

“ Noo, my leddy ! Noo, my bonny leddy ! Ae meenute, an r 
ye’re as safe’s gien ye lay i’ yer minnie’s lap ! ” 


246 


MALCOLM. 


“ I daren’t get up, Malcolm ! I daren’t turn my baCfc to it ! 
I shall drop right down into it if I do ! ” she faltered, beginning 
to sob. 

“ Nae fear o’ that ! There ! ye canna fa’ noo, for Blue Peter 
has the other en’, and Peter’s as strong ’s twa pownies. I'm 
gaein to tak aff yer shune neist.” 

So saying, he lowered himself a little through the breach, hold- 
ing on by the broken wall with one hand, while he gently re- 
moved her sandal shoes with the other. Drawing himself up 
again, he rose to his feet, and taking her hand, said, — 

“ Noo, my leddy, tak a gude grip o’ my han’, an’ as I lift ye, 
gie a scram ’le wi’ yer twa bit feet, an’ as sune’s ye fin’ them aneth 
ye, jist gang up as gien ye war clim’in’ a gey stey brae ( rather 
steep ascent ). Ye cudna fa’ gien ye tried yer warst.” 

At the grasp of his strong hand the girl felt a great gush of 
confidence rise in her heart ; she did exactly as he told her, 
scrambled to her feet, and walked up the slippery way without 
one slide, holding fast by Malcolm’s hand, while Joseph kept 
just feeling her waist with the loop of the rope as he drew it in. 
When she reached the top, she fell, almost fainting, into her 
father’s arms ; but was recalled to herself by an exclamation from 
Blue Peter : just as Malcolm relinquished her hand, his foot 
slipped. But he slid down the side of the mound only — some 
six or seven feet to the bottom of the chamber, whence his voice 
came cheerily, saying he would be with them in a moment. 
When, however, ascending by another way, he rejoined them, 
they were shocked to see blood pouring from his foot : he had 
lighted amongst broken glass, and had felt a sting, but only now 
was aware that the cut was a serious one. He made little of it, 
however, bound it up, and, as the marquis would not now hear 
of bringing the luncheon to the top, having, he said, had more 
than enough of the place, limped painfully after them down to 
the shore. 

Knowing whither they were bound, and even better acquainted 
with the place than Malcolm himself, Mrs Catanach, the moment 
she had drawn down her blinds in mourning for her dog, had 
put her breakfast in her pocket, and set out from her back door, 
contriving mischief on her way. Arrived at the castle, she 
waited a long time before they made their appearance, but was 
rewarded for her patience, as she said to herself, by the luck 
which had so wonderfully seconded her cunning. From a broken 
loophole in the foundation of a round tower, she now watched 
them go down the hill. The moment they were out of sight, she 
crept like a fox from his earth, and having actually crawled 


THE CLOUDED SAPPHIRES. 


247 


beyond danger of discovery, hurried away inland, to reach Port- 
lossie by foot-paths and by-ways, and there show herself on her 
own door-step. 

The woman’s consuming ambition was to possess power over 
others — power to hurt them if she chose — power to pull hidden 
strings fastened to their hearts or consciences or history or foibles 
or crimes, and so reduce them, in her knowledge, if not in theirs, 
to the condition of being, more or less, her slaves. Hence she 
pounced upon a secret as one would on a diamond in the dust , 
any fact even was precious, for it might be allied to some secret 
— might, in combination with other facts, become potent. How 
far this vice may have had its origin in the fact that she had 
secrets of her own, might be an interesting question. 

As to the mysterious communication she had made to her, 
Lady Florimel was not able to turn her mind to it — nor indeed 
for some time was she able to think of anything. 


CHAPTER XLL 

THE CLOUDED SAPPHIRES. 

Before they reached the bottom of the hill, however, Florimel 
had recovered her spirits a little, and had even attempted a laugh 
at the ridiculousness of her late situation ; but she continued very 
pale. They sat down beside the baskets — on some great stones, 
fallen from the building above. Because of his foot, they would 
not allow Malcolm to serve them, but told Mair and him to 
have their dinner near, and called the former when they 
wanted anything. 

Lady Florimel revived still more after she had had a morsel 
of partridge and a glass of wine, but every now and then she 
shuddered : evidently she was haunted by the terror of her late 
position, and, with the gladness of a discoverer, the marquis 
bethought himself of Malcolm’s promised tale, as a means of 
turning her thoughts aside from it. As soon, therefore, as they 
had finished their meal he called Malcolm, and told him they 
wanted his story. 

“ It’s some fearsome,” said Malcolm, looking anxiously at the 
pale face of Lady FlorimeL 

“ Nonsense l ” returned the marquis ; for he thought, and per- 


2 4 3 


MALCOLM. 


haps rightly, that if such it would only serve his purpose the 
better. 

“ I wad raither tell ’t i’ the gloamin’ roon’ a winter fire,” said 
Malcolm, with another anxious look at Lady Florimel. 

“ Do go on,” she said. “ I want so much to hear it ! ” 

“ Go on,” said the marquis ; and Malcolm, seating himself 
near them, began. 

I need not again tell my reader that he may take a short cut 
if he pleases. 

“ There was ance a great nobleman — like yersel’, my lord, only 
no sae douce — an’ he had a great followin’, and was thoucht 
muckle o’ in a’ the country, frae John o’ Groat’s to the Mull o’ 
Gallowa’. But he was terrible prood, an’ thoucht naebody was 
to compare wi’ him, nor onything ’at onybody had, to compare 
wi’ onything ’at he had. His horse war aye swifter, an’ his kye 
aye better milkers nor ither fowk’s ; there war nae deer sae big 
nor had sic muckle horns as the reid deer on his heelan’ hills ; 
nae gillies sae Strang’s his gillies ; and nae castles sae weel biggit 
or sae auld as his ! It may ha’ been a’ verra true for onything I 
ken, or onything the story says to the contrar’; but it wasna 
heumble or Christi-an-like o’ him to be aye at it, ower an’ ower, 
aye gloryin’- -as gien he had a’thing sae by-ord’nar’ ’cause he was 
by-ord’nar’ himsel’, an’ they a’ cam till him by the verra natur’ o’ 
things. There was but ae thing in which he was na fawvoured, 
and that was, that he had nae son to tak up what he left. But 
it maittered the less, that the teetle as weel’s the Ian’s, wad, as 
the tale tells, gang a’ the same till a lass-bairn— an’ a lass-bairn 
he had.” 

4< That is the case in the Lossie family,” said the marquis. 

“ That’s hoo I hae hard the tale, my lord ; but I wad be sorry 
sud a’ it conteens meet wi’ like corroboration. — As I say, a 
dochter there was, an’ gien a’ was surpassing she was surpassin’ 
a'. The faimily piper, or sennachy, as they ca’d him — I wadna 
wonner, my lord, gien thae gran’ pipes yer boonty gae my gran’- 
father, had been his ! — he said in ane o’ his sangs, ’at the sun 
blinkit whanever she shawed hersel’ at the hoose-door. I s’ 
warran’ ae thing — ’at a’ the lads blinkit whan she luikit at them, 
gien sae be she cud ever be said to .condescen’ sae far as to luik 
at ony ; for gien ever she set ee upo’ ane, she never loot it rist : 
her ee aye jist slippit ower a face as gien the face micht or micht 
not be there — she didna ken or care. A’body said she had sic 
a hauchty leuk as was never seen on human face afore ; an’ for 
freen’ly luik, she had nane for ieevin’ cratur, ’cep’ it was her ain 


THE CLOUDED SAPPHIRES. 249 

father, or her ain horse ’at she rade upo\ Her mither was 

deid. 

“ Her father wad fain hae seen her merriet afore he dee’d, but 
the pride he had gien her was like to be the en’ o’ a’, for she 
coontit it naething less than a disgrace to pairt wi’ maiden- 
leeberty. * There’s no man,’ she wad say, whan her father wad 
be pressin’ upo’ the subjec’, — * there’s no mortal man, but yersel’, 
worth the turn o’ my ee.’ An’ the father, puir man, was ower 
weel pleased wi’ the flattery to be sae angry wi’ her as he wad 
fain hae luikit. Sae time gaed on, till frae a bonny lassie she 
had grown a gran’ leddy, an’ cud win up the hill nae forder, but 
bude to gang doon o’ the ither side ; an’ her father was jist near- 
han’ daft wi’ anxiety to see her wad. But no ! never ane wad 
she hearken till ! 

“ At last there cam to the hoose — that’s Colonsay Castel, up 
there — ae day, a yoong man frae Norrawa’, the son o’ a great 
nobleman o’ that country ; an’ wi’ him she was some ta’en. He 
was a fine man to teuk at, an’ he pat them a’ to shame at ony- 
thing that nott stren’th or skeel. But he was as heumble as he 
was fit, an’ never teuk ony credit till himsel’ for onything ’at he 
did or was ; an’ this she was ill-pleased wi’, though she cudna 
help likin’ him, an’ made nae banes o’ lattin’ him see ’at he wasna 
a’thegither a scunner till her. 

“ Weel, ae mornin’, verra ear’, she gaed oot intill her gairden, 
an luikit ower the hedge ; an’ what sud she see but this same 
yoong nobleman tak the bairn frae a puir traivellin’ body, help 
her ower a dyke, and gie her her bairn again ! He was at her 
ain side in anither meenute, but he was jist that meenute ahint 
his tryst, an’ she was in a cauld rage at him. He tried to turn 
her hert, sayin’ — wad she hae had him no help the puir thing 
ower the dyke, her bairnie bein’ but a fortnicht auld, an’ hersel’ 
unco weak-like? but my leddy made a mou’ as gien she was 
scunnert to hear sic things made mention o’. An’ was she to 
stan’ luikin’ ower the hedge, an’ him convoyin’ a beggar-wife an’ 
her brat ! An’ syne to come to her ohn ever washen his han’s ! 

* Hoot, my leddy,’ says he, ‘ the puir thing was a human cratur ! ’ 
— ‘ Gien she had been a God’s angel,’ says she, * ye had no richt 
to keep me waitin’.’ — ‘ Gien she had been an angel,’ says he, 

* there wad hae been little occasion, but the wuman stude in 

want o’ help ! ‘ Gien ’t had been to save her life, ye sudna hae 

keepit me waitin’,’ says she. The lad was scaret at that, as weel 
he micht, an’ takin’ aff ’s bannet, he lowtit laich, an’ left her. 
But this didna shuit my leddy ; she wasna to be left afore she 
said gang l sae she cried him back, an’ he cam, bannet in han’ ; 


250 


MALCOLM. 


an” she leuch, an* made as gien she had been but tryin’ thd 
smeddum o’ ’rri, an’ thoucht him a true k-nicht. The puir fallow 
pluckit up at this, an’ doon he fell upo’s k-nees, an’ oot wi’ a’ ’at 
was in ’s hert, — hoo ’at he lo’ed her mair nor tongue cud tel 1 , an* 
gien she wad hae him, he wad be her slave for ever. 

“ * Ye s’ be that,’ says she, an’ leuch him to scorn. * Gang 
efter yer beggar-wife,’ she says ; ‘I’m sick o’ ye.’ 

“ He rase, an’ teuk up ’s bannet, an’ loupit the hedge, an’ gae 
a blast upo’ ’s horn, an’ gethered his men, an’ steppit aboord his 
boat, ower by Puffie Heid yonner, an’ avva to Norrowa’ ower the 
faem, ’an was never hard tell o’ in Scotian’ again. An’ the leddy 
was hauchtier, and cairried her heid heicher nor ever — maybe to 
hide a scaum ( slight mark of burnmg) she had taen, tor a’ her 
pride. 

“ Sae things gaed on as afore, till at len’th the tide o’ her time 
was weel past the turn, an’ a streak o’ the snaw in her coal-black 
hair. For, as the auld sang says, Her hair was like the craw, An’ 
her ble was like the snaw, An’ her bow-bendit lip Was like the rose- 
hip, An’ her ee was like the licht’nin’, Glorious an’ fricht’nin’. 
But a’ that wad sune be ower ! 

“ Aboot this time, ae day i’ the gloamin’, there cam on sic’ an 
awfu’ storm, ’at the fowk o’ the castel war frichtit ’maist oot o’ 
their wits. The licht’nin’ cam oot o’ the yerd, an’ no frae the lift 
at a’ ; the win’ roared as gien ’t had been an incarnat rage ; the 
thunner rattlet an’ crackit, as gien the mune an’ a’ the stars had 
been made kettledrums o’ for the occasion ; but never a drap o’ 
rain or a stane o’ hail fell; naething brak oot but blue licht an’ 
roarin’ win’. But the strangest thing was, that the sea lay a’ the 
time as oonconcerned as a sleepin’ bairn ; the win’ got nae mair 
grip o’ ’t nor gien a’ the angels had been poolin’ ile oot o’ widows’ 
cruses upo’ ’t; the verra tide came up quaieter nor ord’nar; and 
the fowk war sair perplext as weel’s frichtit. 

“ Jist as the clock o’ the castel chappit the deid o’ the nicht, 
the clamour o’ v’ices was hard throu’ the thunner an’ the win,’ an’ 
the warder luikin’ doon frae the heich bartizan o’ the muckle 
tooer, saw i’ the fire-flauchts, a company o’ riders appro’chin’ the 
castel, a’ upo’ gran’ horses, he said, that sprang this gait an’ that, 
an’ shot fire frae their een. At the drawbrig they blew a horn 
’at rowtit like a’ the bulls o’ Bashan, an’ whan the warder chal- 
lencht them, claimt hoose-room for the nicht. Naebody had 
ever hard o’ the place they cam frae ; it was sae far awa ’at as 
sune ’s a body hard the name o’ ’t, he forgot it again ; but their 
beasts war as fresh an’ as fu’ o’ smeddum as I tell ye, an’ no a 
hair o' ane o’ them turnt. There was jist a de’il’s dizzen o’ them, 


THE CLOUDED SAPPHIRES. 251 

an whaurever ye began to count them, the thirteent had aye a 
reid baird. 

“ Whan the news was taen to the markis — the yerl, I sud say 
— he gae orders to lat them in at ance ; for whatever fau’ts he 
had, naither fear nor hainin’ ( penuriousness ) was amang them. 
Sae in they cam, clatterin’ ower the drawbrig, ’at gaed up an’ 
down aneth them as gien it wad hae cast them. 

“ Richt fremt ( strange ) fowk they luikit whan they cam intill 
the coort yaird — a’ spanglet wi’ bonny bricht stanes o’ a’ colours. 
They war like nae fowk ’at ever the yerl had seen, an’ he had 
been to J eroozlem in ’s day, an’ had fouchten wi’ the Saracenes. 
But they war coorteous men an’ weel-bred-- an’ maistly weel-faured 
tu — ilk ane luikin’ a lord’s son at the least. They had na a 
single servin’-man wi’ them, an’ wad alloo nane o’ the fowk abopt 
the place to lay han’ upo’ their beasts ; an’ ilk ane as he said na, 
wad gie the stallion aneth him a daig wi’ ’s spurs, or a kick ’i the 
ribs, gien he was aff o’ ’s back, wi’ the steel tae o’ his bute ; an’ 
the brute wad lay his lugs i’ the how o’ ’s neck, an’ turn his heid 
asklent, wi’ ae white ee gleyin’ oot o’ ’t, an’ lift a hin’ leg wi’ the 
glintin’ shue turnt back, an’ luik like Sawtan himsel’ whan he 
daurna. 

“ Weel, my lord an’ my leddy war sittin’ i’ the muckle ha’, for 
they cudna gang to their beds in sic a by-ous storm, whan him 
’at was the chief o’ them was ushered in by the seneschal, that’s 
the steward, like, booin’ afore him, an’ ca’in’ him the Prence, an’ 
nae mair, for he cudna min’ the name o’ ’s place lang eneuch to 
say ’t ower again. 

“ An’ sae a prence he was ! an’, forbye that, jist a man by 
Jhimsel’ to luik at ! — i’ the prime o’ life, maybe, but no freely i’ the 
first o’ ’t, for he had the luik as gien he had had a hard time o’ ’t, 
an 1 had a white streak an’ a craw’s fit here and there — the liklier 
to please my leddy, wha look it doon upo’ a’body yoonger nor 
hersel’. He had a commandin’, maybe some owerbeirin’ luik — 
ane ’at a man micht hae birstled up at, but a leddy like my leddy 
wad welcome as worth bringin’ doon. He was dressed as never 
man had appeart in Scotian’ afore — glorious withoot — no like the 
leddy i’ the Psalms ! — for yer ee cud licht nowhaur but there was 
the glitter o’ a stane, sae ’at he flashed a’ ower, ilka motion he 
made. He cairret a short swoord at his side — no muckle langer 
nor my daddy’s dirk, as gien he never foucht but at closs quar- 
ters — the whilk had three sapphires — blue stanes, they tell me — 
an’ muckle anes, lowin’ i’ the sheath o’ ’t, an’ a muckier ane still i’ 
the heft ; only they war some drumly {clouded), the leddy thoucht, 
bein’ a jeedge o’ hingars-at-lugs ( earrings ) an’ sic vainities. 


252 


MALCOLM. 


“ That may be ’s it may , but in cam the prence, wi’ a laich 
boo, an’ a gran upstrauchtin’ again ; an’ though, as I say, he was 
flashin’ a’ ower, his mainner was quaiet as the muneh'cht, — jist 
grace itseP. He profest himsel unco’ indebtit for the shelter 
accordit him ; an’ his een aye soucht the leddy’s, an’ his admira- 
tion o’ her was plain in ilka luik an’ gestur’, an’ though his 
words were feow, they a’ meant mair nor they said. Afore his 
supper cam in, her hert was at his wull. 

“ They say that whan a wuman’s late o’ fa’in’ in love — ye’ll 
ken my lord — I ken naething aboot it — it ’s the mair likly to be 
an oonrizzonin’ an ooncontrollable fancy ; in sic maitters it seems 
wisdom comesna wi’ gray hairs : within ae hoor the leddy was 
enamoured o’ the stranger in a fearfu’ w’y. She poored oot his 
wine till him wi’ her ain han’ ; an’ the moment he put the glaiss 
till ’s lips, the win’ fell an’ the lichtnin’ devallt {ceased). She set 
hersel’ to put questions till him, sic as she thoucht he wad like to 
answer — a’ aboot himsel’ an’ what he had come throu’ ; an’ sic 
stories as he tellt ! She atten’t till him as she had never dune to 
guest afore, an’ her father saw ’at she was sair taen wi’ the man. 
But he wasna a’thegither sae weel pleased, for there was some- 
thing aboot him — he cudna say what — ’at garred him grue {shud- 
der). He wasna a man to hae fancies, or stan’ upo’ freits, but he 
cudna help the creep that gaed doon his backbane ilka time his 
ee encoontert that o’ the prence — it was aye sic a strange luik 
the prence cuist upon him — a luik as gien him an’ the yerl had 
been a’ready ower weel acquant, though the yerl cudna min’ ’at 
ever he had set ee upo’ him. A’ the time, hooever, he had a 
kin’ o’ suspicion ’at they bude to be auld acquantances, an’ sair 
he soucht to mak him oot, but the prence wad never lat a body 
get a glimp o’ his een ’cep’ the body he was speykin’ till — that is 
gien he cud help it, for the yerl did get twa or three glimps o’ 
them as he spak till ’s dauchter ; an’ he declaret efterhin to the 
king’s commissioner, that a pale blue kin’ o’ a licht cam frae them, 
the whilk the body he was conversin’ wi’, an’ luikin’ straucht at, 
never saw. 

“ Weel, the short and the lang o’ ’t that nicht was, that they 
gaed a’ to their beds. 

“ I’ the mornin’, whan the markis — the yerl, I sud say — an’ his 
dochter cam doon the stair, the haill menyie {company) was awa. 
Never a horse or horse was i’ the stable, but the yerl’s ain beasts 
— no ae hair left ahin’ to shaw that they had been there ! an’ i’ 
the chaumers allotted to their riders, never a pair o’ sheets had 
been sleepit in. 

“ The yerl an my leddy sat doon to brak their fast — no freely 


THE CLOUDED SAPPHIRES 


253 


T the same humour, the twa o’ them, as ye may weel believe. 
Whan they war aboot half throu’, wha sud come stridin’ in, soane 
dour an’ ill-pleased like, but the prence himsel’ ! Baith yerl an 7 
leddy startit up : ’at they sud hae sitten doon till a meal ohn even 
adverteest their veesitor that sic was their purpose ! They made 
muckle adu wi’ apologies an’ explanations, but the prence aye 
booed an’ booed, an’ said sae little, that they thocht him 
mortal angert, the whilk was a great vex to my leddy, ye may be 
sure. He had a withert-like luik, an’ the verra diamonds in ’s 
claes war douf like. A’thegither he had a brunt-oot kin’ o’ aissy 
(ashy) leuk. 

“ At len’th the butler cam in, an’ the prence signed till him, 
an’ he gaed near, an’ the prence drew him doon, an’ toot-mootit 
in ’s lug — an’ his breath, the auld man said, was like the grave : 
he hadna had ’s mornin’, he said, an’ tell’t him to put the whusky 
upo’ the table. The butler did as he was tauld, an’ set doon 
the decanter, an’ a glaiss aside it; but the prence bannt him jist 
fearfu’, an’ ordert him to tak awa that playock, and fess a tum’ler. 

“ I’m thinkin’, my lord, that maun be a modern touch,” 
remarked Malcolm here, interrupting himself: “there wasna glaiss 
i’ thae times — was there ? ” 

“ What do I know l ” said the marquis. “ Go on with your 
story.” 

“ But there’s mair intill ’t than that,” persisted Malcolm. “ I 
doobt gien there was ony whusky i’ thae times aither ; for I hard 
a gentleman say the ither day ’at hoo he had tastit the first 
whusky ’at was ever distillt in Scotian’, an’ horrible stuff it was, 
he said, though it was ’maist as auld as the forty-five.” 

“ Confound your long wind ! — Go on,” said the marquis 
peremptorily. 

“ We s’ ca’ ’t whusky, than, ony gait,” said Malcolm, and 
resumed. 

“ The butler did again as he was bidden, an’ fiess (fetched) a 
tum’ler, or mair likely a siller cup, an’ the prence took the de- 
canter, or what it micht be, an’ filled it to the verra brim. The 
butler’s een ’maist startit frae ’s heid, but naebody said naething. 
He liftit it, greedy like, an’ drank aff the whusky as gien ’t had 
been watter. * That’s middlin’,’ he said, as he set it o’ the 
stable again. They luikit to see him fa’ doon deid, but in 
place o’ that he begoud to gether himsel’ a bit, an’ says 
he, ‘We brew the same drink i’ my country, but a wee mair 
pooerfu’.’ Syne he askit for a slice o’ boar-ham an’ a raw 
aipple’ ; an’ that was a’ he ate. But he took anither waucht 
(large draught ) o’ the whusky, an’ his een grew brichter, an’ the 


254 


MALCOLM. 


stanes aboot him began to flash again ; an* my leddy admired him 
the mair, that what wad hae felled ony ither man ony waukened 
him up a bit. An’ syne he telled them hoo, laith to be fashous, 
he had gi’en orders till ’s menyie to be aff afore the momin’ brak, 
an’ wait at the neist cheenge-hoose till he jined them. * Whaur/ 
said the leddy, ‘ I trust ye’ll lat them wait, or else sen’ for them.* 
But the yerl sat an’ said never a word. The prence gae him ae 
glower, an’ declared that his leddy’s word was law to him ; he 
wad bide till she wulled him to gang. At this her een shot fire 
’maist like his ain, an’ she smilit as she had never smilit afore ; 
an’ the yerl cudna bide the sicht o’ ’t, but daurna interfere : he 
rase an’ left the room an’ them thegither. 

“ What passed atwixt the twa, there was nane to tell : but or 
an hoor was by, they cam oot upo’ the gairden-terrace thegither, 
han’ in han’, luikin’ baith o’ them as gran’ an’ as weel pleased 
as gien they had been king and queen. The lang an’ the 
short o’ ’t was, that the same day at nicht the twa was merried. 
Naither o’ them wad hear o’ a priest. Say what the auld yerl 
cud, they wad not hear o’ sic a thing, an’ the leddy was ’maist 
mair set agane ’t nor the prence. She wad be merried accordin’ 
to Scots law, she said, an’ wad hae nae ither ceremony, say ’at 
he likit ! 

“A gran’ feast was gotten ready, an’ jist the meenute afore it 
was cairriet to the ha’, the great bell o’ the castel yowlt oot, an* 
a’ the fowk o’ the hoose was gaithered i’ the coort-yaird, an’ oot 
cam the twa afore them, han’ in han’, declarin’ themsel’s merried 
fowk, the whilk, accordin’ to Scots law, was but ower guid a 
merriage. Syne they sat doon to their denner, an’ there they 
sat — no drinkin’ muckle, they say, but merrily enjoyin’ themsel’s, 
the leddy singin’ a sang noo an’ again, an’ the prence sayin’ he 
ance cud sing, but had forgotten the gait o’ *t: but never a 
prayer said, nor a blessin’ askit — oontil the clock chnppit twal, 
whaurupon the prence and the prencess rase to gang to their bed 
— in a room whaur the king himsel’ aye sleepit whan he cam to 
see them. But there wasna ane o’ the men or the maids ’at wad 
hae daured be their lanes wi’ that man, prence as he ca’d 
himsel’. 

“ A meenute, or barely twa, was ower, whan a cry cam frae 
the king’s room — a fearfu’ cry — a lang lang skreigh. The men 
an’ the maids luikit at ane anither wi’ awsome luiks ; an’ ‘ He’s 
killin’ her ! ’ they a’ gaspit at ance. 

“ Noo she was never a favourite wi* ony ane o’ her ain fowk, 
but still they couldna hear sic a cry frae her ohn run to the 
yeiL 


THE CLOUDED SAPPHIRES. 


255 


“ They fand him pacin’ up and doon the ha’, an* luikin* like a 
deid man in a rage o’ fear. But when they telled him, he only 
leuch at them, an’ ca’d them ill names, an’ said he had na hard a 
cheep. Sae they tuik naething by that, an’ gaed back trimlin’. 

“Twa o’ them, a man an’ a maid to haud hert in ane anither, 
gaed up to the door o’ the transe ( passage ) ’at led to the king’s 
room ; but for a while they hard naething. Syne cam the soon’ 
o’ moanin’ an’ greitin’ an’ prayin’. 

“The neist meenute they war back again amo’ the lave, 
luikin’ like twa corps. They had opent the door o’ the transe 
to hearken closer, an’ what sud they see there but the fiery een 
an’ the white teeth o’ the prence’s horse, lyin’ athort the door o’ 
the king’s room, wi’ ’s hied atween ’s fore feet, an keepin’ watch 
like a tyke (dog ) ! 

“ Er’ lang they bethoucht themsels, an twa o’ them set oot an 
aff thegitherfor the priory — that’s whaur yer ain hoose o’ Lossie noo 
stan’s, my lord, to fess a priest. It wad be a guid twa hoor or they 
wan back, an’ a’ that time, ilka noo an’ than, the moaning an’ 
the beggin’ an’ the cryin’ wad come again. An’ the warder upo’ 
the heich tooer declared ’at ever sin’ midnicht the prence’s 
menyie, the haill twal o’ them, was careerin’ aboot the castel, 
roon’ an roon’, wi’ the een o’ their beasts lowin’, and their heids 
oot, an’ their manes up, an’ their tails fleein’ ahint them. He 
aye lost sicht o’ them whan they wan to the edge o’ the scaur, 
but roon’ they aye cam again upo’ the ither side, as gien there 
had been a ro’d whaur there wasna even a ledge. 

“ The moment the priest’s horse set fut upo’ the drawbrig, the 
puir leddy gae anither ougsome cry, a hantle waur nor the first, 
an’ up gat a suddent roar an’ a blast o’ win’ that maist cairried the 
castel there aff o’ the cliff in till tne watter, an’ syne cam a flash o’ 
blue licht an’ a rum’lin’. Efter that, a’ was quaiet : it was a’ ower 
afore the piieiit wan athort the coort-yaird an’ up the stair. For 
he crossed himsel’ an’ gaed straucht for the bridal chaumer. By 
this time the yerl had come up, an’ followed cooerin’ ahin’ the 
priest. 

“ Never a horse was i’ the transe ; an’ the priest, first layin’ the 
cross ’at hang frae ’s belt agane the door o’ the chaumer, fiang ’t 
open wi’oot ony ceremony, for ye’ll alloo there was room for 
nane. 

“ An’ what think ye was the first thing the yerl saw ? — A great 
hole i’ the wa’ o’ the room, an’ the starry pleuch luikin’ in at it, 
an’ the sea lyin’ far doon afore him — as quaiet as the bride upo’ 
the bed — but a hantle bonnier to luik at ; for ilka steek that had 
been on her was brunt aff, an’ the bonny body o’ her lyin’ a’ 


MALCOLM. 


256 

runklet, an’ as black ’s a coal frae heid to fut ; an* the reek 'at 
rase frae ’t was heedeous. I needna say the bridegroom wasna 
there. Some fowk thoucht it a guid sign that he hadna cairried 
the body wi’ him ; but maybe he was ower suddent scared by the 
fut o’ the priest’s horse upo’ the drawbrig, an’ dauredna bide his 
oncome. Sae the fower-fut stane-wa’ had to flee afore him, for a 
throu-gang to the Prence o’ the Pooer o’ the Air. An’ yon’s the 
verra hole to this day, ’at ye was sae near ower weel acquaint wi’ 
yersel’, my leddy. For the yerl left the castel, and never a Col- 
onsay has made his abode there sin’ syne. 'But some say ’at the 
rizzon the castel cam to be desertit a’thegither was, that as aften 
as they biggit up the hole, it fell oot again as sure ’s the day o’ 
the year cam roon’ whan it first happened. They say, that 
at twal o’clock that same nicht, the door o’ that room aye 
gaed tu, an’ that naebody daur touch ’t, for the heat o’ the han’le 
o’ ’t ; an’ syne cam the skreighin’ an’ the moanin’, an’ the fearsome 
skelloch at the last, an’ a rum’le like thun’er , an’ i’ the mornin’ 
there was the wa’ oot ! The hole’s bigger noo, for a’ the decay 
o’ the castel has taen to slidin’ oot at it, an’ doobtless it’ll spread 
an’ spread till the haill structur vainishes ; at least sae they say, 
my lord ; but I wad hae a try at the haudin’ o’ ’t thegither for a’ 
that. I dinna see ’at the diel sud hae ’t a’ his ain gait, as gien we 
war a’ fleyt at him. Fowk hae threepit upo’ me that there i’ the 
gloamin’ they hae seen an’ awsome face luikin’ in upo’ them throu* 
that slap i’ the wa’ ; but I never believed it was onything but 
their ain fancy, though for a’ ’at I ken, it may ha’ been something 
no canny. Still, I say, wha ’s feart? The 111 Man has no pooer 
'cep ower his ain kin. We ’re tellt to resist him an’ he’ll flee 
frae ’s.” 

“ A good story, and well told,” said the marquis kindly. “ — 
Don’t you think so, Florimel?” 

“Yes, papa,” Lady Florimel answered; “only he kept us 
waiting too long for the end of it.” 

“ Some fowk, my leddy,” said Malcolm, “ wad aye be at the 
hin’er en’ o’ a’ thing. But for mysel’, the mair pleased I was to be 
gaein’ ony gait, the mair I wad spin oot the ro’d till ’t.” 

“How much of the story may be your own invention now?” 
said the marquis. 

“ Ow, nae that muckle, my lord ; jist a feow extras an’ par- 
tic’lars ’at micht weel hae been, wi’ an adjective, or an adverb, or 
sic like, here an’ there. I made ae mistak’ though ; gien ’t was 
yon hole yonner, they bude till hae gane doon an’ no up the stair 
to their chaumer.” 

His lordship laughed, and, again commending the tale, rose : 


DUNCANS DISCLOSURE . 


257 


it was time to re embark — an operation less arduous than before, 
for in the present state of the tide it was easy to bring the cutter so 
close to a low rock that even Lady Florimel could step on board. 

As they had now to beat to windward, Malcolm kept the tiller 
in his own hand. But indeed, Lady Florimel did not want to 
steer ; she was so much occupied with her thoughts that her hands 
must remain idle. 

Partly to turn them away from the more terrible portion of her 
adventure, she began to reflect upon her interview with Mrs 
Catanach — if interview it could be called, where she had seen no 
one. At first she was sorry that she had not told her father of it, 
and had the ruin searched ; but when she thought of the com- 
munication the woman had made to her, she came to the 
conclusion that it was, for various reasons — not to mention the 
probability that he would have set it all down to the workings of 
an unavoidably excited nervous condition — better that she should 
mention it to no one but Duncan MacPhail. 

When they arrived at the harbour-quay, they found the carriage 
waiting, but neither the marquis nor Lady Florimel thought of 
Malcolm’s foot, and he was left to limp painfully home. As he 
passed Mrs Catanach’s cottage, he looked up : there were the 
blinds still drawn down ; the door was shut, and the place was 
silent as the grave. By the time he reached Lossie House, his 
foot was very much swollen. When Mrs Courthope saw it, she 
sent him to bed at once, and applied a poultice. 


CHAPTER X L 1 1. 
duncan’s disclosure. 

The night long Malcolm kept dreaming of his fall; and his dreams 
were worse than the reality, inasmuch as they invariably sent him 
sliding out of the breach, to receive the cut on the rocks below. 
Very oddly this catastrophe was always occasioned by the grasp 
of a hand on his ancle. Invariably also, just as he slipped, the 
face of the Prince appeared in the breach, but it was at the same 
time the face of Mrs Catanach. 

The next morning, Mrs Courthope found him feverish, and 
insisted on his remaining in bed— no small trial to one who had 
never been an hour ill in his life ; but he was suffering go much 
that he made little resistance. 


2 5 8 


MALCOLM. 


In the enforced quiescence, and undei the excitements of pain 
and fever, Malcolm first became aware how much the idea of Lady 
Florimel had at length possessed him. But even in his own 
thought he never once came upon the phrase, in love, as repre- 
senting his condition in regard of her : he only knew that he 
worshipped her, and would be overjoyed to die for her. The 
youth had about as little vanity as could well consist with in- 
dividual coherence ; if he was vain at all, it was neither of his 
intellectual nor personal endowments, but of the few tunes he 
could play on his grandfather’s pipes. He could run and swim, 
rare accomplishments amongst the fishermen, and was said to be 
the best dancer of them all ; but he never thought of such 
comparison himself. The rescue of Lady Florimel made him very 
happy : he had been of service to her ; but so far was he from 
cherishing a shadow of presumption, that as he lay there he felt it 
would be utter content to live serving her for ever, even when he 
was old and wrinkled and gray like his grandfather: he never 
dreamed of her growing old and wrinkled and gray. 

A single sudden thought sufficed to scatter — not the devotion, 
but its peace. Of course she would marry some day, and what 
then ? He looked the inevitable in the face ; but as he looked, 
that face grew an ugly one. He broke into a laugh : — his soul 
had settled like a brooding cloud over the gulf that lay between 
a fisher-lad and the daughter of a peer ! But although he was 
no coxcomb, neither had fed himself on romances, as Lady 
Florimel had been doing of late, and although the laugh was 
quite honestly laughed at himself, it was nevertheless a bitter 
one. For again came the question : — Why should an absurdity 
be a possibility ? It was absurd, and yet possible : there was the 
point. In mathematics it was not so : there, of two opposites to 
prove one an absurdity, was to prove the other a fact. Neither 
in metaphysics was it so : there also an impossibility and an 
absurdity were one and the same thing. But here, in a region 
of infinitely more import to the human life than an eternity ot 
mathematical truth, there was at least one absurdity which was 
yet inevitable — an absurdity — yet with a villainous attendance of 
direst heat, marrow-freezing cold, faintings, and ravings, and 
demoniacal laughter. 

Had it been a purely logical question he was dealing with, he 
might not have been quite puzzled ; but to apply logic here, as 
he was attempting to do, was like — not like attacking a fortifica- 
tion with a penknife, for a penknife might win its way through 
the granite ribs of Cronstadt — it was like attacking an eclipse 
with a broomstick : there was a solution to the difficulty , but as 


DUNCAN'S DISCLOSURE. 


259 


the difficulty itself was deeper than he knew, so the answer to it 
lay higher than he could reach — was in fact at once grander and 
finer than he was yet capable of understanding. 

His disjointed meditations were interrupted quite by the 
entrance of the man to whom alone of all men he could at the 
time have given a hearty welcome. The schoolmaster seated 
himself by his bedside, and they had a long talk. I had set 
down this talk, but came to the conclusion I had better not print 
it : ranging both high and wide, and touching on points of vital 
importance, it was yet so odd, that it would have been to too 
many of my readers but a Chimaera tumbling in a vacuum — as 
they will readily allow when I tell them that it started from the 
question — which had arisen in Malcolm's mind so long ago, but 
which he had not hitherto propounded to his friend — as to the 
consequences of a man’s marrying a mermaid ; and that Malcolm, 
reversing its relations, proposed next, the consequences of a 
man’s being in love with a ghost or hn angel. 

“ I’m dreidfu’ tired o’ lyin’ here i’ my bed,” said Malcolm at 
length when, neither desiring to carry the conversation further, a 
pause had intervened. “ I dinna ken what I want Whiles I 
think its the sun, whiles the win’, and whiles the watter. But I 
canna rist Haena ye a bit ballant ye could say till me Mr 
Graham ? There’s naething wad quaiet me like a ballant.” 

The schoolmaster thought for a few minutes, and then said, — 

“I’il give you one of my own, if you like, Malcolm. I made 
it some twenty or thirty years ago.” 

“ That wad be a trate, sir,” returned Malcolm ; and the master, 
with perfect rhythm, and a modulation amounting almost to 
melody, repeated the following verses : — 

The water ran doon frae the heich kope-heid, [head 0] the valley ) 

IV? a Rin, burnie , rin ; 

It wimpled, an’ waggled, an’ sang a screed 
O’ nonsense, an’ wadna blin, [cease) 

IV? its Rin , burnie, rin. 

Frae the hert o’ the warl’, wi’ a swirl an* a sway, 

An' a Rin , burnie, rin, 

That water lap clear frae the dark till the day. 

An’ singin’ awa’ did spin, 

W? its Rin , burnie, rin. 

Ae wee bit mile frae the heich hope-held, 

W? a Rin, burnie, rin, 

’Jdang her yows an’ her lambs the herd-lassie shade, 

An’ she loot a tear fa* in, 

IV? a Rin , burnie, rin. 


2$0 


MALCOLM. 


Frae the hert o* the maiden that tear-drap rase, 

Wi' a Kin, burnie, rin ; 

Wearily clim’in’ up narrow ways, 

There was but a drap to fa* in, 

Sae slow did that burnie rin. 

Twa wee bit miles frae the heich hope-heid, 

Wi' a Rin, burnie, rin , 

Boon creepit a cowerin’ streakie o’ reid. 

An’ meltit awa’ within, 

Wi’ a Rin , burnie , rin. 

Frae the hert o’ a youth cam the tricklin’ reid, 

WC a Rin, burnie, rin ; 

It ran an’ ran till it left him deid, 

An’ syne it dried up i’ the win’. 

An’ that burnie nae mair did rin. 

Whan the wimplin’ burn that frae three herts naed 
Wf a Rin, burnie , rin , 

Cam to the lip o’ the sea sae braid. 

It curled an’ grued wi’ pain o’ sin— 

But it took that burnie in. 

“ It’s a bonny, bonny sang,” said Malcolm ; “ but I cav hsl say 
I tf’thegither like it.” 

“ Why not ? ” asked Mr Graham, with an inquiring smile. 

“Because the ocean sudna mak a mou’ at the puir earth- 
burnie that cudna help what ran intill ’t.” 

“It took it in though, and made it clean, for all the pain it 
couldn’t help either.” 

“ Weel, gien ye luik at it that gait ! ” said Malcolm. 

In the evening his grandfather came to see him, and sat down 
by his bedside, full of a tender anxiety which he was soon able to 
alleviate. 

“ Wownded in ta hand and in ta foot ! ” said the seer : “what 
can it mean ? It must mean something, Malcolm, my son.” 

“ Weel, daddy, we maun jist bide till we see,” said Malcolm 
cheerfully. 

A little talk followed, in the course of which it came into 
Malcolm’s head to tell his grandfather the dream he had had so 
much of, the first night he had slept in that room — but more for 
the sake of something to talk about that would interest one who 
believed in all kinds of prefigurations, than for any other reason. 

Duncan sat moodily silent for some time, and then, with i great 
heave of his broad chest, lifted up his head, like one who had 
formed a resolution, and said : 

“ The hour has come. She has long peen afrait to meet it, put 


DUNCAN'S DISCLOSURE. 


261 

it has come, and Allister will meet it. — She ’ll not pe your cran’- 

father, my son.” 

He spoke the words with perfect composure, hut as soon as 
they were uttered, burst into a wail, and sobbed like a child. 

‘‘Yell be my ain father than?” said Malcolm. 

“ No, no, my son. Shell not pe anything that’s your own at 
aal !” 

And the tears flowed down his channelled cheeks. 

For one moment Malcolm was silent, utterly bewildered. 
But he must comfort the old man first, and think about what he 
had said afterwards. 

“Ye’re my ain daddy, whatever ye are !” he said. “ Tell me 
a’ aboot it, daddy.” 

“ She 11 tell you all she 11 pe knowing, my son, and she nefer 
told a lie efen to a Cawmill.” 

He began his story in haste, as if anxious to have it over, but 
had to pause often from fresh outbursts of grief. It contained 
nothing more of the essential than I have already recorded, and 
Malcolm was perplexed to think why what he had known all the 
time should affect him so much in the telling. But when he 
ended with the bitter cry — “And now you’ll pe loving her no 
more, my poy, my chilt, my Malcolm !” he understood it. 

“Daddy! daddy!” he cried, throwing his arms round his 
neck and kissing him, “ I lo’e ye better nor ever. An’ weel I 
may !” 

“ But how can you, when you’ve cot none of ta plood in you, 
my son?” persisted Duncan. 

“ I hae as muckle as ever I had, daddy.” 

“ Yes, put you 11 tidn’t know.” 

“ But ye did, daddy.” 

“ Yes, and inteet she cannot tell why she 11 pe loving you so 
much herself aal ta time !” 

“ Weel, daddy, gien ye cud lo’e me sae weel, kennin’ me nae 
bluid’s bluid o’ yer ain — I canna help it : I mawi lo'e ye mair nor 
ever, noo’ at I ken ’t tu. — Daddy, daddy, I had nae claim upo’ 
ye, an’ ye hae been father an’ gran’father an’ a’ to me ! ” 

“What could she do, Malcolm, my poy? Ta chilt had no 
one, and she had no one, and so it wass. You must pe her own 
poy after all ! — And she ’ll not pe wondering put. — It might 
pe. — Yes, inteed not !” 

His voice sank to the murmurs of a half-uttered soliloquy, and 
as he murmured he stroked Malcolm’s cheek. 

“What are ye efter noo daddy?” asked Malcolm. 

The only sign that Duncan heard the question was the com- 


262 


MALCOLM. 


plete silence that followed. When Malcolm repeated it, he said 
something in Gaelic, but finished the sentence thus, apparently 
unaware of the change of language : 

“ — only how else should she pe lovin you so much, Malcolm, 
my son ? ” 

“I ken what Maister Graham would say, daddy,” rejoined 
Malcolm, at a half-guess. 

“What would he say, my son? He’s a coot man, your 
Maister Craham. — It could not pe without ta sem fathers, and ta 
sem chief.” 

“ He wad say it was ’cause we war a’ o’ ae bluid — ’cause we 
had a’ ae father.” 

“ Oh yes, no toubt ! We aal come from ta same first paarents ; 
put tat will be a fery long way off, pefore ta clans cot tokether. 
It ’ll not pe holding fery well now, my son. Tat waas pefore ta 
Cawmills.” 

“That’s no what Maister Graham would mean, daddy,” said 
Malcolm. “He would mean that God was the father o’ ’s a’, and 
sae we cudna help lo’in’ ane anither.” 

“ No ; tat cannot pe right, Malcolm ; for then we should haf 
to love efervbody. Now she loves you, my son, and she hates 
Cawmill of Clenlyon. She loves Mistress Partan when she’ll not 
pe too rude to her, and she hates tat Mistress Catanach. She’s 
a paad woman, ’tat she’ll pe certain sure, though she’ll nefor saw 
her to speak to her. She’ll haf claaws to her poosoms.” 

“ Weel, daddy, there was naething ither to gar ye lo’e me. I 
was jist a helpless human bein’, an’ sae for that, an’ nae ither 
rizzon, ye tuik a’ that fash wi’ me ! An’ for mysel’, I’m deid sure 
I cudna lo’e ye better gien ye war twise my gran’father.” 

“ Pie’s her own poy 1” cried the piper, much comforted ; and 
his hand sought his head, and lighted gently upon it. “ — Put, 
maype,” he went on, “ she might not haf loved you so much if 
she hadn’t peen tinking sometimes ” 

He checked himself. Malcolm’s questions brought no con- 
clusion to the sentence, and a long silence followed. 

“ Supposin’ I was to turn oot a Cawmill ? ” said Malcolm, at 
length. 

The hand that was fondling his curls withdrew as if a serpent 
had bit it, and Duncan rose from his chair. 

“ Wass it her own son to pe speaking such an efil thing ! ” he 
said, in a tone of injured and sad expostulation. 

“ For onything ye ken, daddy— ye canna tell but it mith be.” 

“ Ton’t preathe it, my son ! ” cried Duncan in a voice of agony, 
as if he saw unfolding a fearful game the arch-enemy had been 


DUNCAN’S DISCLOSURE. 263 

playing for his soul. — “Put it cannot pe,” lie resumed instantly, 
“for ten how should she pe loving you, my son?” 

“ ’Cause ye was in for that afore ye kent wha the puir beastie 
was.” 

“ Ta tarling chilt ! she could not haf loved him if he had peen 
a Cawmill. Her soul would haf chumped pack from him as from 
ta snake in ta tree. Ta hate in her heart to ta plood of ta Caw- 
mill, would have killed ta chilt of ta Cawmill plood. No, 
Malcolm ! no, my son !” 

“Ye wadna hae me believe, daddy, that gien ye had kent by 
mark o’ hiv {hoof) an’ horn, that the cratur they laid i’ yer lap 
was a Cawmill — ye wad hae risen up, an’ lootin it lie whaur it 
fell?” 

“ No, Malcolm ; I would haf put my foot upon it, as I would 
on ta young fiper in ta heather.” 

“ Gien I was to turn oot ane o’ that ill race, ye wad hate me, 
than, daddy — efter a’ 1 Ochone, daddy ! Ye wad be weel 
pleased to think hoo ye stack yer durk throu’ the ill han’ o’ me, 
an’ wadna rist till ye had it throu’ the waur hert. — I doobt I 
had better up an’ awa’, daddy, for wha’ kens what ye mayna du 
to me ? ” 

Malcolm made a movement to rise, and Duncan’s quick ears 
understood it. He sat down again by his bedside and threw his 
arms over him. 

“ Lie town, lie town, my poy. If you ket up, tat will pe you 
are a Cawmill. No, no, my son ! You are ferry cruel to your 
own old daddy. She would pe too much sorry for her poy to 
hate him. It will pe so treadful to pe a Cawmill ! No, no, my 
poy ! She would take you to her poosom, and tat would trive 
ta Cawmill out of you. Put ton’t speak of it any more, my son, 
for it cannot pe.— She must co now, for her pipes will pe waiting 
for her.” 

Malcolm feared he had ventured too far, for never before had 
his grandfather left him except for work. But the possibility he 
had started might do something to soften the dire endurance of 
his hatred. 

His thoughts turned to the new darkness let in upon his history 
and prospects. All at once the ciy of the mad laird rang in his 
mind’s ear : “ I dinna ken whaur I cam frae !” 

Duncan’s revelation brought with it nothing to be done — 
hardly anything to be thought — merely room for most shadowy, 
most unfounded conjecture — nay, not conjecture — nothing but 
the vaguest of castle-building ! In merry mood, he would hence- 
forth be the son of some mighty man, with a boundless future of 


264 


MALCOLM. 


sunshine opening before him ; in sad mood, the son of some 
strolling gipsy or worse — his very origin better forgotten — a dis- 
grace to the existence for his share in which he had hitherto been 
peacefully thankful. 

Like a lurking phantom-shroud, the sad mood leaped from the 
field of his speculation, and wrapped him in its folds : sure 
enough he was but a beggar’s brat ! — How henceforth was he to 
look Lady Florimel in the face? Humble as he had believed 
his origin, he had hitherto been proud of it : with such a high- 
minded sire as he deemed his own, how could he be other ? But 
now ! Nevermore could he look one of his old companions 
in the face ! They were all honourable men ; he a base-born 
foundling ! 

He would tell Mr Graham of course ; but what could Mr 
Graham say to it ? The fact remained He must leave Port- 
lossie. 

His mind went on brooding, speculating, devising. The even- 
ing sunk into the night, but he never knew he was in the dark until 
the housekeeper brought him a light. Alter a cup of tea, his 
thoughts found pleasanter paths. One thing was certain : — 
he must lay himself out, as he had never done before, to make 
Duncan MacPhail happy. With this one thing clear to both 
heart and mind, he fell fast asleep. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

THE WIZARD’S CHAMBER. 

He woke in the dark, with that strange feeling of bewilderment 
which accompanies the consciousness of having been waked : is 
it that the brain wakes before the mind, and like a servant unex- 
pectedly summoned, does not know what to do with its master 
from home ? or is it that the master wakes first, and the servant 
is too sleepy to answer his call ? Quickly coming to himself, 
however, he sought the cause of the perturbation now slowly 
ebbing. But the dark into which he stared could tell nothing ; 
therefore he abandoned his eyes, took his station in his ears, and 
thence sent out his messengers. But neither, for some moments, 
could the scouts of hearing come upon any sign. 

At length, something seemed doubtfully to touch the sense 
— the faintest suspicion of a noise in * the next room — the 
wizard’s chamber : it was enough to set Malcolm on the floor. 


THE WIZARD'S CHAMBER. 


265 

Forgetting his wounded foot and lighting upon it, the agony it 
caused him dropped him at once on his hands and knees, and 
in this posture he crept into the passage. As soon as his head 
was outside his own door, he saw a faint gleam of light coming 
from beneath that of the next room. Advancing noiselessly, 
and softly feeling for the latch, his hand encountered a bunch of 
keys depending from the lock, but happily did not set them 
jingling. As softly, he lifted the latch, when, almost of itself, the 
door opened a couple of inches, and, with bated breath, he saw 
the back of a figure he could not mistake — that of Mrs Catanach, 
She was stooping by the side of a tent-bed much like his own. 
fumbling with the bottom hem of one of the check-curtains, 
which she was holding towards the light of a lantern on a chair. 
Suddenly she turned her face to the door, as if apprehending a 
presence ; as suddenly, he closed it, and turned the key in the 
lock. To do so he had to use considerable force, and concluded 
its grating sound had been what waked him. 

Having thus secured the prowler, he crept back to his room, 
considering what he should do next. The speedy result of his 
cogitations was, that he indued his nether garments, though with 
difficulty from the size of his foot, thrust his head and arms 
through a jersey, and set out on hands and knees for an awkward 
crawl to Lord Lossie’s bedroom. 

It was a painful journey, especially down the two spiral stone 
stairs, which led to the first floor where he lay. As he went, 
Malcolm resolved, in order to avoid rousing needless observers, 
to enter the room, if possible, before waking the marquis. 

The door opened noiselessly. A night-light, afloat in a crystal 
cup, revealed the bed, and his master asleep, with one arm lying 
on the crimson quilt. He crept in, closed the door behind him, 
advanced half-way to the bed, and in a low voice called the 
marquis. 

Lord Lossie started up on his elbow, and without a moment’s 
consideration seized one of a brace of pistols which lay on a table 
by his side, and fired. The ball went with a sharp thud into the 
thick mahogany door. 

“ My lord ! my lord ! ! ” cried Malcolm, “ it’s only me ! ” 
u And who the devil are you?” returned the marquis, snatch- 
ing up the second pistol. 

“ Malcolm, yer ain henchman, my lord.” 
u Damn you ! what are you about then ? Get up. What ara 
you after there — crawling like a thief? ” 

As he spoke he leaped from the bed, and seized Malcolm by 
the back of the neck. 


2 66 


MALCOLM. 


“ It’s a mercy I wasna mair like an honest man,” said Malcolm, 
“or that bullet wad hae been throu’ the harns o’ me. Yer lord- 
ship’s a wheen ower rash.” 

“ Rash ! you rascal ! ” cried Lord Lossie ; “ — when a fellow 
comes into my room on his hands and knees in the middle of the 
night ? Get up, and tell me what you are after, or, by Jove ! 
I’ll break every bone in your body.” 

A kick from his bare foot in Malcolm’s ribs fitly closed the 
sentence. 

“Ye are ower rash, my lord ! ” persisted Malcolm. “ I canna 
get up. I hae a fit the size o’ a sma’ buoy ! ” 

“Speak, then, you rascal!” said his lordship, loosening his 
hold, and retreating a few steps, with the pistol cocked in his 
hand. 

“ Dinna ye think it wad be better to lock the door, for fear 
the shot sud bring ony o’ the fowk 1 ” suggested Malcolm, as he 
rose to his knees and leaned his hands on a chair. 

“You’re bent on murdering me — are you then?” said the 
marquis, beginning to come to himself and see the ludicrousness 
of the situation. 

“ Gien I had been that, my lord, I wadna hae waukent ye up 
first.” 

“ Well, what the devil is it all about? — You needn’t think any 
of the men will come. They’re a pack of the greatest cowards 
ever breathed.” 

“ Weel, my lord, I hae gruppit her at last, an’ I bude to come 
an’ tell ye.” 

“ Leave your beastly gibberish. You can speak what at least 
resembles English when you like.” 

“ Weel, my lord, I hae her unner lock an’ keye.” 

“ Who, in the name of Satan ? ” 

“ Mistress Catanach, my lord ? ” 

“ Damn her eyes ! What’s she to me that I should be waked 
out of a good sleep for her ? ” 

“That’s what I wad fain yer lordship kent : /dinna.” 

“None of your riddles ! Explain yourself; — and make haste; 
I want to go to bed again.” 

“ ’Deed, yer lordship maun jist pit on yer claes, an’ come 
wi’ me.” 

“ Where to ? ” 

“To the warlock’s chaumer, my lord — whaur that ill wuman 
remains ‘ in durance vile,’ as Spenser wad say — but no sae vile’s 
hersel’, I do:>bt.” 

Thus arrived at length, with a clear road before him, at the 


THE WIZARDS CHAMBER. 


267 


opening of his case, Malcolm told in few words what had fallen 
out. As he went on, the marquis grew interested, and by the 
time he had finished, had got himself into dressing-gown and 
slippers. 

“ Wadna ye tak yer pistol ? ” suggested Malcolm slyly. 

“ What ! to meet a woman ? ” said his lordship. 

“ Ow na ! but wha kens there michtna be anither murderer 
aboot ? There micht be twa in ae nicht.” 

Impertinent as was Malcolm’s humour, his master did not take 
it amiss : he lighted a candle, told him to lead the way, and 
took his revenge by making joke after joke upon him as he 
crawled along. With the upper regions of his house the marquis 
was as little acquainted, as with those of his nature, and required 
a guide. 

Arrived at length at the wizard’s chamber, they listened at the 
door for a moment, but heard nothing ; neither was there any 
light visible at its lines of junction. Malcolm turned the key, 
and the marquis stood close behind, ready to enter. But the 
moment the door was unlocked, it was pulled open violently, 
and Mrs Catanach, looking too high to see Malcolm who was on 
his knees, aimed a good blow at the face she did see, in the 
hope, no doubt, of thus making her escape. But it fell short, 
being countered by Malcolm’s head in the softest part of her 
person, with the result of a clear entrance. The marquis burst 
out laughing, and stepped into the room with a rough joke. 
Malcolm remained in the doorway. 

“ My lord,” said Mrs Catanach, gathering herself together, 
and rising little the worse, save in temper, for the treatment he 
had commented upon, I have a word for your lordship’s own 
ear.” 

“ Your right to be the~e does stand in need of explanation,” 
said the marquis. 

She walked up to him with confidence. 

“ You shall have an explanation, my lord,” she said, “ such as 
shall be my full quittance for intrusion even at this untimely 
hour of the night.” 

“ Say on then,” returned his lordship. 

“ Send that boy away then, my lord.” 

“ I prefer having him stay,” said the marquis. 

“Not a word shall cross my lips till he’s gone,” persisted Mrs 
Catanach. “ I know him too well ! Awa’ wi’ ye, ye deil’s buckie ! ” 
she continued, turning to Malcolm ; “ I ken mair aboot ye nor 
ye ken aboot yersel’, an’ deil hae’t I ken o’ guid to you or yours ! 
But I s' gar ye Iauch o’ the vrang side o’ your mou’ yet, my man.” 


MALCOLM ; 


258 

Malcolm, who had seated himself on the threshold, only 
laughed and looked reference to his master. 

“ Your lordship was never in the way of being frightened at a 
woman,” said Mrs Catanach, with an ugly expression o* 
insinuation. 

The marquis shrugged his shoulders. 

“ That depends,” he said. Then turning to Malcolm, — “ Go 
along,” he added ; “ only keep within call. I may want you.” 

“ Nane o’ yer hearkenin’ at the keye-hole, though, or I s’ lug- 

mark ye, ye ! ” said Mrs Catanach, finishing the sentence 

none the more mildly that she did it only in her heart. 

“ I wadna hae ye believe a ' ’at she says, my lord,” said 
Malcolm, with a significant smile, as he turned to creep away. 

He closed the door behind him, and lest Mrs Catanach should 
re-possess herself of the key, drew it from the lock, and, removing 
a few yards, sat down in the passage by his own door. A good 
many minutes passed, during which he heard not a sound. 

At length the door opened, and his lordship came out. 
Malcolm looked up, and saw the light of the candle the marquis 
carried, reflected from a face like that of a corpse. Different as 
they were, Malcolm could not help thinking of the only dead 
face he had ever seen. It terrified him for the moment in which 
it passed without looking at him. 

“ My lord ! ” said Malcolm gently 

His master made no reply. 

“ My lord ! ” cried Malcolm, hurriedly pursuing him with his 
voice, “ am I to lea’ the keyes wi’ yon hurdon, and lat her open 
what doors she likes ? ” 

“ Go to bed,” said the marquis angrly, “and leave the woman 
alone with which words he turned into the adjoining passage, 
and disappeared. 

Mrs Catanach had not come out of the wizard’s chamber, and 
for a moment Malcolm felt strongly tempted to lock her in once 
more. But he reflected that he had no right to do so after what 
his lordship had said — else, he declared to himself, he would have 
given her at least as good a fright as she seemed to have given 
his master, to whom he had no doubt she had been telling some 
horrible lies. He withdrew, therefore, into his room — to lie 
pondering again for a wakeful while. 

This horrible woman claimed then to know more concerning 
him than his so-called grandfather, and, from her profession, it 
was likely enough ; but information from her was hopeless — at 
least until her own evil time came ; and then, how was any one 
to believe what she might choose to say ? So long, however, as 


THE HERMIT. 269 

she did not claim him for her own, she could, he thought, do 
him no hurt he would be afraid to meet. 

But what could she be about in that room still ? She might 
have gone, though, without the fall of her soft fat foot once be- 
traying her ! 

Again he got out of bed, and crept to the wizard’s door, and 
listened. But all was still. He tried to open it, but could not : 
Mrs Catanach was doubtless spending the night there, and per- 
haps at that moment lay, evil conscience and all, fast asleep in 
the tent-bed. He withdrew once more, wondering whether she 
was aware that he occupied the next room ; and, having, for the 
first time, taken care to fasten his own door, got into bed, finally 
this time, and fell asleep. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

THE HERMIT. 

Malcolm had flattered himself that he would at least be able to 
visit his grandfather the next day ; but, instead of that, he did 
not even make an attempt to rise — head as well as foot aching so 
much, that he felt unfit for the least exertion — a phase of being 
he had never hitherto known. Mrs Courthope insisted on advice, 
and the result was that a whole week passed before he was 
allowed to leave his room. 

In the meantime, a whisper awoke and passed from mouth to 
mouth in all directions through the little burgh — whence arising 
only one could tell, for even her mouth-piece, Miss Horn’s Jean, 
was such a mere tool in the midwife’s hands, that she never 
doubted but Mrs Catanach was, as she said, only telling the tale 
as it was told to her. Mrs Catanach, moreover, absolutely certain 
that no threats would render Jean capable of holding her tongue, 
had so impressed upon her the terrible consequences of repeating 
what she had told her, that, the moment the echo of her own uttei- 
ances began to return to her own ears, she began to profess an utter 
disbelief in the whole matter — the precise result Mrs Catanach had 
foreseen and intended : now she lay unsuspected behind Jean, as 
behind a wall whose door was built up ; for she had so graduated 
her threats, gathering the fullest and vaguest terrors of her super- 
natural powers about her name, that while Jean dared, with many 
misgivings, to tamper with the secret itself, she dared not once 


270 


MALCOLM , ; 


mention Mrs Catanach in connection with it. For Mrs Catanach 
herself, she never alluded to the subject, and indeed when it was 
mentioned in her hearing pretended to avoid it ; but at the same 
time she took good care that her silence should be not only elo- 
quent, but discreetly so, that is, implying neither more nor less 
than she wished to be believed. 

The whisper, in its first germinal sprout, was merely that Mal- 
colm was not a MacPhail ; and even in its second stage it only 
amounted to this, that neither- was he the grandson of old 
Duncan. 

In the third stage of its development, it became the assertion 
that Malcolm was the son of somebody of consequence ; and in 
the fourth, that a certain person, not yet named, lay under shrewd 
suspicion. 

The fifth and final form it took was, that Malcolm was the son 
of Mrs Stewart of Gersefell, who had been led to believe that he 
died within a few days of his birth, whereas he had in fact been 
carried off and committed to the care of Duncan MacPhail, who 
drew a secret annual stipend of no small amount in consequence 
— whence indeed his well-known riches ! 

Concerning this final form of the whisper, a few of the women 
of the burgh believed or thought or fancied they remembered 
both the birth and reported death of the child in question — also 
certain rumours afloat at the time, which cast an air of probability 
over the new reading of his fate. In circles more remote from 
authentic sources, the general reports met with remarkable em 
bellishments, but the framework of the rumour — what I may call 
the bones of it — remained undisputed. 

From Mrs Catanach’s behaviour, every one believed that she 
knew all about the affair, but no one had a suspicion that she 
was the hidden fountain and prime mover of the report — so far 
to the contrary was it that people generally anticipated a frightful 
result for her when the truth came to be known, for that Mrs Stewart 
would follow her with all the vengeance of a bereaved tigress. 
Some indeed there were who fancied that the mother, if not in 
full complicity with the midwife, had at least given her consent 
to the arrangement ; but these were not a little shaken in their 
opinion when at length Mrs Stewart herself began to figure more 
immediately in the affair, and it was witnessed that she had her- 
self begun to search into the report. Certain it was that she had 
dashed into the town in a carriage and pair — the horses covered 
with foam — and had hurried, quite raised-like, from house to 
louse, prosecuting inquiries. It was said that, finding at length, 
after much labour that she could arrive at no certainty even »& 


THE HERMIT. 


271 


to the first promulgator of the assertion, she had a terrible fit of 
crying, and professed herself unable, much as she would have 
wished it, to believe a word of the report : it was far too good 
news to be true ; no such luck ever fell to her share — and so on. 
That she did not go near Duncan MacPhail was accounted for 
by the reflection, that, on the supposition itself, he was of the 
opposite party, and the truth was not to be looked for from 
him. 

At length it came to be known that, strongly urged, and battl- 
ing with a repugnance all but invincible, she had gone to see Mrs 
Catanach, and had issued absolutely radiant with joy, declaring 
that she was now absolutely satisfied, and, as soon as she had 
communicated with the young man himself, would, without com- 
promising any one, take what legal steps might be necessary to 
his recognition as her son. 

Although, however, these things had been going on all the 
week that Malcolm was confined to his room, they had not 
reached this last point until after he was out again, and mean- 
time not a whisper of them had come to his or Duncan’s ears. 
Had they been still in the Seaton, one or other of the travelling 
ripples of talk must have found them ; but Duncan had come 
and gone between his cottage and Malcolm’s bedside, without a 
single downy feather from the still widening flap of the wings of 
Fame ever dropping on him ; and the only persons who visited 
Malcolm besides — were the Doctor — too discreet in his office to 
mix himself up with gossip; Mr Graham, to whom nobody, except 
it had been Miss Horn, whom he had not seen for a fortnight, 
would have dreamed of mentioning such a subject; and Mrs 
Courthope — not only discreet like the doctor, but shy of such 
discourse as any reference to the rumour must usher in its 
train. 

At length he was sufficiently recovered to walk to his grand- 
father’:: cottage ; but only now for the first time had he a notion 
of how far bodily condition can reach in the oppression and 
overclouding of the spiritual atmosphere. — “ Gien I be like this/' 
he said to himself, “ what maun the weather be like aneth yon 
hump o’ the laird’s !” Now also for the first time he understood 
what Mr Graham had meant when he told him that he only was 
a strong man who was strong in weakness ; he Qnly a hraye man 
who, inhabiting trembling, yet faced his foe ; he only a true tpaij 
who, tempted by good , yet abstained. 

Duncan received him with delight, made him sit in his owrjj 
old chair, got him a cup of tea, and waited upon him with the 
tenderness of a, woman. While he d’ank his tea, Malcolm 


272 


MALCOLM. 


recounted his last adventure in connection with the wizard’s 
chamber. 

“ Tat will be ta ped she ’ll saw in her feeshon,” said Duncan, 
whose very eyes seemed to listen to the tale. 

When Malcolm came to Mrs Catanach’s assertion that she 
knew more of him than he did himself — 

“Then she peliefs ta voman does, my poy. We are aall poth 
of us in ta efil voman’s power,” said Duncan sadly. 

“Never a hair, daddy ! ” cried Malcolm. “A’ pooer ’s i’ the 
ban’s o’ ane, that’s no her maister. Ken she what she likes, 
she canna pairt you an’ me, daddy.” 

“ God forpid ! ” responded Duncan. “ But we must pe on 
our kard.” 

Close by the cottage stood an ivy-grown bridge, of old leading 
the king’s highway across the burn to the Auld Toon, but now 
leading only to the flower-garden. Eager for the open air of 
which he had been so long deprived, and hoping he might 
meet the marquis or Lady Florimel, Malcolm would have had 
his grandfather to accompany him thither ; but Duncan declined, 
for he had not yet attended to the lamps ; and Malcolm there- 
fore went alone. 

He was slowly wandering, where never wind blew, betwixt 
rows of stately hollyhocks, on which his eyes fed, while his ears 
were filled with the sweet noises of a little fountain, issuing from 
the upturned beak of a marble swan, which a marble urchin 
sought in vain to check by squeezing the long threat of the 
bird, when the sounds of its many-toned fall in the granite basin 
seemed suddenly centupled on every side, and Malcolm found 
himself caught in a tremendous shower. Prudent enough to 
avoid getting wet in the present state of his health, he made for 
an arbour he saw near by, on the steep side of the valley — one 
he had never before happened to notice. 

Now it chanced that Lord Lossie himself was in the garden, 
and, caught also by the rain while feeding some pet goldfishes in 
a pond, betook himself to the same summer-house, following 
Malcolm. 

Entering the arbour, Malcolm was about to seat himself until 
the shower should be over, when, perceiving a mossy arched 
entrance to a gloomy recess in the rock behind, he went to peep 
into it, curious to see what sort of a place it was. 

Now the foolish whim of a past generation had, in the farthest 
corner of the recess, and sideways from the door, seated the 
figure of a hermit, whose jointed limbs were so furnished with 
springs and so connected with the stone that floored the entrance 


THE HERMIT. 


2 73 

that as soon as a foot pressed the threshold, he rose, advanced 
a step, and held out his hand. 

The moment, therefore, Malcolm stepped in, up rose a pale, 
hollow-cheeked, emaciated man, with eyes that stared glassily, 
made a long skeleton-like stride towards him, and held out a 
huge bony hand, rather, as it seemed, with the intent of clutching, 
than of greeting, him. An unaccountable horror seized him ; 
with a gasp which had nearly become a cry, he staggered back- 
wards out of the cave. It seemed to add to his horror that the 
man did not follow — remained lurking in the obscurity behind. 
In the arbour Malcolm turned — turned to flee ! — though why, or 
from what, he had scarce an idea. 

But when he turned he encountered the marquis, who was just 
entering the arbour. 

“ Well, MacPhail,” he said kindly, “ I’m glad ” 

But his glance became fixed in a stare ; he changed colour, and 
did not finish his sentence. 

“ I beg yer lordship’s pardon,” said Malcolm, wondering 
through all his perturbation at the look he had brought on Jtiis 
master’s face ; “ I didna ken ye was at han’.” 

“ What the devil makes you look like that?” said the marquis, 
plainly with an effort to recover himself. 

Malcolm gave a hurried glance over his shoulder. 

“ Ah ! I see ! ” said his lordship, with a mechanical kind of 
smile, very unlike his usual one ; “ — you’ve never been in there 
before ! ” 

“ No, my lord.” 

“ And you got a fright?” 

“ Ken ye wha’s that, in there, my lord ? ” 

“ You booby ! It’s nothing but a dummy — with springs, and 
—and — all damned tom-foolery ! ” 

While he spoke his mouth twitched oddly, but instead of his 
bursting into the laugh of enjoyment natural to him at the dis- 
comfiture of another, his mouth kept on twitching and his eyes 
staring. 

“Ye maun hae seen him yersel’ ower my shouther, my lord,” 
hinted Maicolm. 

“I saw your face, and that was enough to .” But the 

marquis did not finish the sentence. 

“ Weel, ’cep it was the oonnaiteral luik o’ the thing — no 
human, an’ yet sae dooms like it— I can not account for the grue 
or the *rimmle ’at cam ower me, my lord, I never fan’ onything 
like it i’ my life afore. An’ even noo ’at I unnerstan’ what it is, I 
kenna what wad gar me luik the boody {bogie) i’ the face again.” 

S 


274 


MALCOLM. 


“ Go in at once,” said the marquis fiercely. 

Malcolm looked him full in the eyes. 

“ Ye mean what ye say, my lord ] ” 

“Yes, by God ! ” said the marquis, with an expression I can 
describe only as of almost savage solemnity. 

Malcolm stood silent for one moment. 

“ Do you think I’ll have a man about me that has no more 
courage than — than — a — woman 1 ” said his master, concluding 
with an effort. 

“I was jist turnin’ ower an auld question, my lord — whether 
it be lawfu’ to obey a tyrant But it’s na worth stan’in’ oot upok 
I s’ gang.” 

He turned to the arch, placed a hand on each side of it, and 
leaned forward with outstretched neck, peeped cautiously in, as 
if it were the den of a wild beast The moment he saw the 
figure — seated on a stool — he was seized with the same un- 
accountable agitation, and drew back shivering. 

“ Go in,” shouted the marquis. 

Most Britons would count obedience to such a command 
slavish ; but Malcolm’s idea of liberty differed so far from 
that of most Britons, that he felt, if now he refused to obey 
the marquis, he might be a slave for ever ; for he had already 
learned to recognize and abhor that slavery which is not the less 
the root of all other slaveries that it remains occult in proportion 
to its potency — self-slavery : — he must and would conquer this 
whim, antipathy, or whatever the loathing might be : it was a 
grand chance given him of proving his will supreme — that is him- 
self a free man ! He drew himself up, with a full breath, and 
stepped within the arch. Up rose the horror again, jerked it- 
self towards him with a clank, and held out its hand. Malcolm 
seized it with such a gripe that its fingers came off in his grasp. 

“ Will that du, my lord ? ” he said calmly, turning a face rigid 
with hidden conflict, and gleaming white, from the framework of 
the arch, upon his master, whose eyes seemed to devour him. 

“ Come out,” said the marquis, in a voice that seemed to belong 
to some one else. 

“ I hae blaudit yer playock, my lord,” said Malcolm ruefully, 
as he stepped from the cave and held out the fingers. 

Lord Lossie turned and left the arbour. 

Had Malcolm followed his inclination, he would have 
fled from it, but he mastered himself still, and walked quietly 
out. The marquis was pacing, with downbent head and hasty 
strides, up the garden : Malcolm turned the other way. 

The shower was over, and the sun was drawing out millions 


THE HERMIT 


2 75 


of mimic suns from the drops that hung, for a moment ere they 
fell, from flower and bush and great tree. But Malcolm saw 
nothing. Perplexed with himself, and more perplexed yet with 
the behaviour of his master, he went back to his grandfather’s 
cottage, and, as soon as he came in, recounted to him the whole 
occurrence. 

“He had a feeshon,” said the bard, with wide eyes. “He 
comes of a race that sees.” 

“ What cud the veesion hae been, daddy ? ” 

“ Tat she knows not, for ta feeshon tid not come to her,” said 
the piper solemnly. 

Had the marquis had his vision in London, he would have 
gone straight to his study , as he called it, not without a sense of 
the absurdity involved, opened a certain cabinet, and drawn out 
a certain hidden drawer ; being at Lossie, he walked up the glen 
of the burn to the bare hill, overlooking the House, the royal 
burgh, the great sea, and his own lands lying far and wide around 
him. But all the time he saw nothing of these — he saw but the 
low white forehead of his vision, a mouth of sweetness, and 
hazel eyes that looked into his very soul. 

Malcolm walked back to the Blouse, clomb the narrow duct 
of an ancient stone stair that went screwing like a great auger 
through the pile from top to bottom, sought the wide lonely 
garret, flung himself upon his bed, and from his pillow gazed 
through the little dormer window on the pale blue skies flecked 
with cold white clouds, while in his mind’s eye he saw the foliage 
beneath burning in the flames of slow decay, diverse as if each 
of the seven in the prismatic chord had chosen and seared its 
own : the first nor’-easter that drove the flocks of Neptune on 
the sands, would sweep its ashes away. Life, he said to himself, 
was but a poor gray kind of thing after all. The peacock sum- 
mer had folded its gorgeous train, and the soul within him had 
lost its purple and green, its gold and blue. He never thought 
of asking how much of the sadness was owing to bodily condi- 
tions with which he was little acquainted, and to compelled idle- 
ness in one accustomed to an active life. But if he had, the 
sorrowful probabilities of life would have seemed just the same. 
And indeed he might have argued that, to be subject to any evil 
from a cause inadequate, only involves an absurdity that embitters 
the pain by its mockery, He had yet to learn what faith can 
do, in the revelation of the Moodless, for the subjugation of mood 
to will. 

As he lay thus weighed upon rather than pondering, his eye 
fell on the bunch of keys which he had taken from the door of 


2 76 


MALCOLM. 


the wizard’s chamber, and he wondered that Mrs Courthope hac 
not seen and taken them — apparently had not missed them : 
And the chamber doomed to perpetual desertion lying all the 
time open to any stray foot ! Once more at least, he must go 
and turn the key in the lock. 

As he went the desire awoke to look again into the chamber, 
for that night he had had neither light nor time enough to gain 
other than the vaguest impression of it. 

But for no lifting of the latch would the door open. — How 
could the woman — witch she must be — have locked it? He 
proceeded to unlock it. He tried one key, then another. He 
went over the whole bunch. Mystery upon mystery 1 — not one 
of them would turn. Bethinking himself, he began to try them 
the other way, and soon found one to throw the bolt on. He 
turned it in the contrary direction, and it threw the bolt off : still 
the door remained immovable ! It must then — awful thought ! 
— be fast on the inside ! Was the woman’s body lying there be- 
hind those check curtains ? Would it lie there until it vanished, 
like that of the wizard, — vanished utterly — bones and all, to a 
little dust, which one day a housemaid might sweep up in a pan? 

On the other hand, if she had got shut in, would she not have 
made noise enough to be heard 1 — he had been day and night in 
the next room ! But it was not a spring-lock, and how could 
that have happened ? Or would she not have been missed, and 
inquiry made after her? Only such an inquiry might well have 
never turned in the direction of Lossie House, and he might 
never have heard of it, if it had. 

Anyhow he must do something : and the first rational move- 
ment would clearly be to find out quietly for himself whether the 
woman was actually missing or not. 

Tired as he was he set out at once for the burgh, and the first 
person he saw was Mrs Catanach standing on her doorstep and 
shading her eyes with her hand, as she looked away out to the 
horizon over the roofs of the Seaton. He went no farther. 

In the evening he found an opportunity of telling his master 
how the room was strangely closed; but his lordship pooh- 
poohed, and said something must have gone wrong with the 
clumsy old lock. 

With vague foresight, Malcolm took its key from the bunch, 
and, watching his opportunity, unseen hung the rest on their 
proper nail in the housekeeper’s room. Then, having made 
sure that the door of the wizard’s chamber was locked, he laid 
the key away in his own chest 


MR CAIRNS AND THE MARQUIS. 


2 77 


CHAPTER XL V, 

MR CAIRNS AND THE MARQUIS. 

The religious movement amongst the fisher-folk was still going 
on. Their meeting was now held often during the week, and at 
the same hour on the Sunday as other people met at church. 
Nor was it any wonder that, having participated in the fervour 
which pervaded their gatherings in the cave, they should have 
come to feel the so-called divine service in the churches of their 
respective parishes a dull, cold, lifeless, and therefore unhelpful 
ordinance, and at length regarding it as composed of beggarly 
elements, breathing of bondage, to fill the Baillies’ Barn three 
times every Sunday — a reverential and eager congregation. 

Now, had they confined their prayers and exhortations to 
those which, from an ecclesiastical point of view, constitute the 
unholy days of the week, Mr Cairns would have neither con- 
descended nor presumed to take any notice of them ; but when 
the bird’s-eye view from his pulpit began to show patches of bare 
board where human forms had wont to appear; and when these 
plague-spots had not only lasted through successive Sundays, but 
had begun to spread more rapidly, he began to think it time to 
put a stop to such fanatical aberrations — the result of pride and 
spiritual presumption — hostile towards God, and rebellious 
towards their lawful rulers and instructors. 

For what an absurdity it was that the spirit of truth should 
have anything to communicate to illiterate and vulgar persons 
except through the mouths of those to whom had been committed 
the dispensation of the means of grace ! Whatever wind might 
blow, except from their bellows, was, to Mr Cairns at least, not 
even of doubtful origin. Indeed the priests of every religion, 
taken in class, have been the slowest to recognize the wind of 
the spirit, and the quickest to tell whence the blowing came and 
whither it went — even should it have blown first on their side of 
the hedge. And how could it be otherwise ? How should they 
recognize as a revival the motions of life unfelt in their own 
hearts, where it was most required ? What could they know of 
doubts and fears, terrors and humiliations, agonies of prayer, 
ecstasies of relief and thanksgiving, who regarded their high 
calling as a profession, with social claims and ecclesiastical 
rights ; and even as such had so little respect for it that they 
talked of it themselves as the cloth ? How could such a man as 
Mr Cairns, looking down from the height of his great soberness 


2?3 


MALCOLM. 


and the dignity of possessing the oracles and the ordinances, 
do other than contemn the enthusiasms and excitements of 
ignorant repentance ? How could such as he recognize in the 
babble of babes the slightest indication of the revealing of truths 
hid from the wise and prudent ; especially since their rejoicing 
also was that of babes, hence carnal, and accompanied by all the 
weaknesses and some of the vices which it had required the 
utmost energy of the prince of apostles to purge from one at 
least of the early churches ? 

He might, however, have sought some foundation for a true 
judgment, in a personal knowledge of their doctrine and collective 
behaviour ; but, instead of going to hear what the babblers had 
to say, and thus satisfying himself whether the leaders of the 
movement spoke the words of truth and soberness, or of discord 
and denial — whether their teaching and their prayers were on the 
side of order and law, or tending to sedition — he turned a ready 
ear to all the reports afloat concerning them, and, misjudging 
them utterly, made up his mind to use all lawful means for put- 
ting an end to their devotions and exhortations. One fact he 
either had not heard or made no account of— that the public- 
houses in the villages whence these assemblies were chiefly 
gathered, had already come to be all but deserted. 

Alone, then, and unsupported by one of his brethren of the 
Presbytery, even of those who suffered like himself, he repaired 
to Lossie House, and laid before the marquis the whole matter 
from his point of view : — that the tabernacles of the Lord were 
deserted for dens and caves of the earth ; that fellows so void of 
learning as not to be able to put a sentence together, or talk 
decent English, (a censure at which Lord Lossie smiled, for his 
ears were accustomed to a different quality of English from that 
which now invaded them) took upon themselves to expound the 
Scriptures ; that they taught antinomianism, (for which assertion, 
it must be confessed, there was some apparent ground) and were 
at the same time suspected of Arminianism and Anabaptism l 
that, in a word, they w r ere a terrible disgrace to the godly and 
hitherto sober-minded parishes in which the sect, if it might be 
dignified with even such a name, had sprung up. 

The marquis listened with much indifference, and some im- 
patience : what did he or any other gentleman care about such 
things? Besides, he had a friendly feeling towards the fisher- 
folk, and a decided disinclination to meddle with their liberty, 
either of action or utterance.* 

* 111, from all artistic points of view, as such a note comes in, I must, for 
reasons paramount to artistic considerations, remind my readers, that not only 


MR CAIRNS AND THE MARQUIS. 


279 


“But Tihat have I to do with it, Mr Cairns ? ” he said, when 
the stream of the parson's utterance had at length ceased to 
flow. “ I am not a theologian ; and if I were, I do not see how 
that even would give me a right to interfere.” 

“ In such times of insubordination as these, my lord, v said Mr 
Cairns, “ when every cadger thinks himself as good as an earl, it 
is more than desirable that not a single foothold should be lost 
There must be a general election soon, my lord. Besides, these 
men abuse your lordship’s late hospitality, declaring it has had 
the worst possible influence on the morals of the people.” 

A shadow of truth rendered this assertion the worse misrepre- 
sentation : no blame to the marquis had even been hinted at ; 
the speakers had only animadverted on the fishermen who had 
got drunk on the occasion. 

“ Still,” said the marquis, smiling, for the reported libel did not 
wound him very deeply, “what ground of right have 1 to 
interfere ? ” 

“ The shore is your property, my lord — every rock and every 
buckie ( spiral shell) upon it ; the caves are your own — every 
stone and pebble of them : you can prohibit all such assemblies.” 

“ And what good would that do ? They would only curse me, 
and go somewhere else.” 

“Where could they go, where the same law wouldn’t hold, 
my lord ? The coast is yours for miles and miles on both sides.” 

“ I don’t know that it should be.” 

“Why not, my lord? It has belonged to your family from 
time immemorial, and will belong to it, I trust, while the moon 
endureth.” 

“ They used to say,” said the marquis thoughtfully, as if he 
were recalling something he had heard long ago, “ that the earth 
was the Lord’s.” 

“ This part of it is Lord Lossie’s,” said Mr Cairns, combining 
the jocular with the complimentary in one irreverence ; but, as 
if to atone for the freedom he had taken — “ The Deity has com- 
mitted it to the great ones of the earth to rule for him,” he 
added, with a devout obeisance to the delegate. 

Lord Lossie laughed inwardly. 

“ You can even turn them out of their houses, if you please, 
my lord,” he superadded. 

“God forbid !” said the marquis. 

Is the date of my story half a century or so back, hut, dealing with principles, 
has hardly anything to do with actual events, and nothing at all with persons. 
The local skeleton of the story alone is taken from the real, and I had not a 
model, not to say an original, for one of the characters in it— except indeed 
Mrs Catanach’s dog. 


28 o 


MALCOLM. 


“ A threat — the merest hint of such a measure is all that would 
be necessary.” 

“ But are you certain of the truth of these accusations ? ” 

“ My lord ! ” 

“Of course you believe them, or you would not repeat them, 
but it does not follow that they are fact.” 

“ They are matter of common report, my lord. What I have 
stated is in every one’s mouth.” 

“ But you have not yourself heard any of their sermons, or 
what do they call them ? ” 

“ No, my lord,” said Mr Cairns, holding up his white hands in 
repudiation of the idea ; “ it would scarcely accord with my 
position to act the spy.” 

“ So, to keep yourself immaculate, you take all against them 
for granted ! I have no such scruples, however. I will go and 
see, or rather hear, what they are about : after that I shall be in 
a position to judge.” 

“ Your lordship’s presence will put them on their guard.” 

“ If the mere sight of me is a check,” returned the marquis, 
“extreme measures will hardly be necessary.” 

He spoke definitively, and made a slight movement, which his 
visitor accepted as his dismissal. He laughed aloud when the 
door closed, for the spirit of what the Germans call Schadenfreude 
was never far from his elbow, and he rejoiced in the parson’s 
discomfiture. It was in virtue of his simplicity, precluding 
discomfiture, that Malcolm could hold his own with him so well 
For him he now sent. 

“ Well, MacPhail,” he said kindly, as the youth entered, “ how 
is that foot of yours getting on ? ” 

“ Brawly, my lord ; there’s naething muckle the maitter wi’ hit 
or me aither, noo ’at we’re up. But I was jist nearhan’ deid o' 
ower muckle bed.” 

“ Had n’t you better come down out of that cockloft?” said 
the marquis, dropping his eyes. 

“Na, my lord; I dinna care aboot pairtin’ wi’ my neebour yet.” 

“ W'hat neighbour ? ” 

“ Ow, the auld warlock, or whatever it may be ’at hauds a 
reemish ( romage ) there.” 

“ What ! is he troublesome next ? ” 

“Ow, na! I’m no thinkin’ ’t; but ’deed I dinna ken, my 
lord ! ” said Malcolm. 

“ What do you mean, then ? ” 

“ Gien yer lordship wad aloo me to force yon door, I wad be 
better able to tell ye.” 


MR CAIRNS AND THE MARQUIS. 


281 


w Then the old man is not quiet? ” 

“ There’s something no quaiet.” 

“ Nonsense ! It’s all your imagination — depend on it.” 
u I dinna think it.” 

“ What do you think, then? You’re not afraid of ghosts, suiely ?” 
“ No muckle. I hae naething mair upo’ my conscience nor I 
can bide i’ the deidest o’ the nicht.” 

“ Then you think ghosts come of a bad conscience ? A kind 
of moral delirium tremens — eh ? ” 

“ I dinna ken, my lord ; but that’s the only kin’ o’ ghaist I wad 
be fleyed at — at least ’at I wad rin frae. I wad a heap raither 
hae a ghaist i’ my hoose nor ane far’er benn. An ill man, 01 
wuman, like Mistress Catanach, for enstance, ’at’s a’boady, ’cep’ 
what o’ her ’s deevil, ” 

“Nonsense!” said the marquis, angrily; but Malcolm went on : 

“ maun be jist fu’ o’ ghaists ! An’ for onything I ken, that 

’ll be what maks ghaists o’ themsel’s efter they ’re deid, settin’ 
them walkin' , as they ca’ ’t. It’s full waur nor bein’ possessed wi’ 
deevils, an’ maun be a hantle mair ooncoamfortable.-^But I wad 
hae yon door opent, my lord.” 

“ Nonsense ! ” exclaimed the marquis once more, and shrugged 
his shoulders. “ You must leave that room. If I hear anything 
more about noises, or that sort of rubbish, I shall insist upon it. 
— I sent for you now, however, to ask you about these clandes- 
tine meetings of the fisher-folk.” 

“ Clandestine, my lord ? There’s no clam aboot them, but the 
clams upo’ the rocks.” 

The marquis was not etymologist enough to understand 
Malcolm’s poor pun, and doubtless thought it worse than it was. 

" I don’t want any fooling,” he said. “ Of course you know 
these people ? ” 

“ Ilka man, wuman, an’ bairn o’ them,” answered Malcolm. 

“ And what sort are they ? ” 

“ Siclike as ye micht expec’.” 

“ That’s not a very luminous answer.” 

“ Weel, they’re nae waur nor ither fowk, to begin wi’ ; an’ gien 
this hauds, they’ll be better nor mony.” 

“ What sort are their leaders ? ” 

“ Guid, respectable fowk, my lord.” 

“ Then there’s not much harm in them ? ” 

“ There’s nane but what they wad fain be rid o*. I canna say 
as muckle for a’ ’at hings on to them. There’s o’ them, nae 
doobt, wha wad fain win to h’aven ohn left their sins ahin’ them , 
but they get nae encouragement frae Maister MacLeod. Blue 


282 


MALCOLM. 


Peter, ’at gangs oot wi’ ’s i’ yer lordship’s boat — he’s ane o’ their 
best men — though he never gangs ayont prayin’, I’m tauld.” 

“Which is far enough, surely,” said his lordship, “ who, belong- 
ing to the Episcopal church, had a different idea concerning the 
relative dignities of preaching and praying. 

“Ay, for a body’s sel’, surely; but maybe no aye eneuch for 
ither fowk,” answered Malcolm, always ready after his clumsy 
fashion. 

“ Have you been to any of these meetings ?” 

“ I was at the first twa, my lord.” 

“ Why not more ? ” 

“ I didna care muckle aboot them, an’ I hae aye plenty to du. 
Besides, I can get mair oot o’ Maister Graham wi’ twa words o’ 
a question nor the haill crew o’ them could tell me atween this 
an’ eternity.” 

“ Well, I am going to trust you,” said the marquis slowly, with 
an air of question rather than of statement 

“Ye may du that, my lord.” 

“ You mean I may with safety ? ” 

“ I div mean that same, my lord.” 

“ You can hold your tongue then ? ” 

“ I can, an’ I wull my lord,” said Malcolm ; but added in haste, 
“ — ’cept’ it interfere wi’ ony foregane agreement or nat’ral 
obligation.” 

It must be borne in mind that Malcolm was in the habit of 
discussing all sorts of questions with Mr Graham : some of the 
formulae wrought out between them he had made himself 
thoroughly master of. 

“ By Jupiter ! ” exclaimed the marquis, with a pause of amuse- 
ment. “ Well,” he went on, “ I suppose I must take you on your 
own terms. — They’ve been asking me to put a stop to these con- 
venticles.” 

“ Wha has, my lord 1” 

“ That’s my business.” 

“ Lat it be nae ither body’s, my lord.” 

“ That’s my intention. I told him I would go and judge for 
myself.” 

“ Jist like yer lordship ! ” 

“What do you mean by that?” 

“ I was aye sure ye was for fair play, my lord.” 

“ It’s little enough I’ve ever had,” said the marquis. 

“ Sae lang’s we gie plenty, my lord, it maitters less hoo muckle 
we get. A’body likes to get it.” 

“ That doctrine won’t carry you far, my lad.” 


MR CAIRNS AND THE MARQUIS. 283 

“Far eneuch, gien ’t cairry me throu’, my lord.” 

“ Plow absolute the knave is!” said his lordship good- 
humouredly. “ — Well, but,” he resumed, “ — about these fisher- 
men : I’m only afraid Mr Cairns was right 0 

“What said he, my lord?” 

“ That, when they saw me there, they would fit their words to 
my ears.” 

“ I ken them better nor ony black-coat atween Cromarty an’ 
Peterheid ; an’ I can tell yer lordship there winna be ae word o’ 
differ for your bein’ there.” 

“ If only I could be there and not there both at once ! there’s 
no other sure mode of testing your assertion. What a pity the 
only thorough way should be an impossible one ! ” 

“ To a’ practical purpose, it’s easy eneuch, my lord. Jist gang 
ohn be seen the first nicht, an’ the neist gang in a co’ch an’ fower. 
Syne compaur.” 

“ Quite satisfactory, no doubt, if I could bring myself to do it ; 
but, though I said I would, I don’t like to interfere so far even as 
to go at all.” 

“ At ony public meetin’, my lord, ye hae as guid a richt to be 
present, as the puirest body i’ the Ian’. An’ forbye that, as lord 
o’ the place, ye hae a richt to ken what’s gaein’ on : I dinna ken 
hoo far the richt o’ interferin’ gangs; that’s anither thing 
a’thegither.” 

“ I see you’re a thorough-going rebel yourself.” 

“Naething o’ the kind, my lord. I’m only sae far o’ yer lord- 
ship’s min’ ’at I like fair play — gien a body could only be aye 
richt sure what was fair play ! ” 

“ Yes, there's the very point ! — certainly, at least, when the 
question comes to be of eaves-dropping — not to mention that I 
could never condescend to play the spy.” 

“ What a body has a richt to hear, he may hear as he likes — 
either sliawun’ himsel’ or hidin’ himsel’. An’ it ’s the only plan 
’at ’s fair to them, my lord. It ’s no ’s gien yer lordship was lyin’ 
in wait to du them a mischeef : ye want raither to du them a 
kin’ness, an’ tak their pairt” 

“ I don’t know that, Malcolm. It depends.” 

“ It ’s plain yer lordship’s prejudeezed i’ their fawvour. Ony 
gait I ’m sartin it ’s fair play ye want ; an’ I canna for the life o’ 
me see a hair o’ wrang i’ yer lordship’s gaein’ in a cogue , as auld 
Tammy Dyster ca’s ’t ; for, at the warst, ye cud only interdick 
them, an’ that ye cud du a’ the same, whether ye gaed or no. 
An’, gien ye be sae wulled, I can tak you an’ my leddy whaur 
ye ’ll hear ilka word ’at ’s uttered, an’ no a body get a glimp o’ ye, 


MALCOLM, 


i%\ 

mair nor gien ye was sittin’ at yer ain fireside as ye are the 
noo.” 

“ That does make a difference ! ” said the marquis, a great part 
of whose unwillingness arose from the dread of discovery. — “ It 
would be very amusing.” 

“ I’ll no promise ye that,” returned Malcolm. “ I dinna ken 
aboot that — There’s jist ae objection hooever : ye wad hae to 
gang a guid hoor afore they begoud to gaither. — An’ there ’s aye 
laadies aboot the place sin’ they turned it intill a kirk ! ” he 
added thoughtfully. “ — But,” he resumed, “ we cud manage 
,ihem.” 

“ How ? ” 

“ I wad get my gran’father to strik’ up wi’ a spring upo’ the 
pipes, o’ the other side o’ the bored craig — or lat aff a shot o’ the 
sweevil : they wad a’ rin to see, an’ i’ the meantime we cud Ian* 
ye frae the cutter. We wad hae ye in an’ oot o’ sicht in a moment 
— Blue Peter an’ me — as quaiet as gien ye war ghaists, an’ the 
hoor midnicht.” 

The marquis was persuaded, but objected to the cutter. They 
would walk there, he said. So it was arranged that Malcolm 
should take him and Lady Florimel to the Baillies’ Bam the very 
next time the fishermen had a meeting. 


CHAPTER XL V L 

THE BAILLIES’ BARN. 

Lady Florimel was delighted at the prospect of such an adven- 
ture. The evening arrived. An hour before the time appointed 
for the meeting, the three issued from the tunnel, and* passed 
along the landward side of the dune, towards the promontory. 
There sat the piper on the swivel, ready to sound a pibroch the 
moment they should have reached the shelter of the bored craig 
— his signal being Malcolm’s whistle. The plan answered per- 
fectly. In a few minutes, all the children within hearing were 
gathered about Duncan — a rarer sight to them than heretofore — 
and the way was clear to enter unseen. 

It was already dusk, and the cave was quite dark, but Malcolm 
lighted a candle, and, with a little difficulty, got them up into the 
Wider part of the cleft, where he had arranged :omfortable seats 


THE BAILLIE'S BARN. 285 

with plaids and cushions. As soon as they were placed, he 
extinguished the light. 

“ I wish you would tell us another story, Malcolm,” said Lady 
Florimel. 

“ Do,” said the marquis : “ the place is not consecrated 
yet.” 

“ Did ye ever hear the tale o’ the auld warlock, my leddy ? ” 
asked Malcolm. “ — Only my lord kens ’t ! ” he added. 

“ I don’t,” said Lady Florimel. 

“ It ’s great nonsense,” said the marquis. 

u Do let us have it, papa.” 

“ Very well. I don’t mind hearing it again.” 

He wanted to see how Malcolm would embellish it. 

“ It seems to me,” said Malcolm, “ that this ane aboot Lossie 
Iloose’ an’ yon ane aboot Colonsay Castel, are verra likly but 
twa stalks frae the same rute. Ony gate, this ane aboot the 
warlock maun be the auldest o’ the twa. Ye s’ hae ’t sic ’s I hae ’t 
mysel’. Mistress Coorthoup taul’ ’t to me.” 

It was after his own more picturesque fashion, however, that 
he recounted the tale of Lord Gemon. 

As the last words left his lips, Lady Florimel gave a startled 
cry, seized him by the arm, and crept close to him. The marquis 
jumped to his feet, knocked his head against the rock, uttered an 
oath, and sat down again. 

“ What ails ye, my leddy ? ” said Malcolm. “ There’s naething 
here to hurt ye.” 

“ I saw a face,” she said, “ — a white face !” 

“ Whaur ? ” 

“ Beyond you a little way — near the ground,” she answered, in 
a tremulous whisper. 

“It’s as dark’s pick!” said Malcolm, as if thinking it to him- 
self. — He knew well enough that it must be the laird or Phemy, 
but he was anxious the marquis should not learn the secret of the 
laird’s refuge. 

“ I saw a face anyhow,” said FlorimeL “ It gleamed white for 
one moment, and then vanished.” 

“ I wonner ye didna cry oot waur, my leddy,” said Malcolm, 
peering into the darkness. 

“ I was too frightened. It looked so ghastly ! — not more than 
ft foot from the ground.” 

“ Cud it hae been a flash, like, frae yer ain een ?” 

“No ; I am sure it was a face.” 

“ How much is there of this cursed hole ?” asked the marquis, 
rubbing the top of his head 


286 


MALCOLM. 


“ A heap” answered Malcolm. “ The grun’ gangs down like 
a brao ahin’ ’s, intil a ” 

“You don’t mean right behind us?” cried the marquis.. 

“ Nae jist closs, my lord. We’re sittin’ i’ the mou’ o’ ’t, like, wi* 
the thrapple ( throat ) o’ ’t ahin’ ’s, an’ a muckle stamach ayont that.” 

“ I hope there’s no danger,” said the marquis. 

“ Nane ’at I ken o’.” 

“No water at the bottom ?” 

“Nane, my lord — that is, naething but a bonny spring i’ the* 
rock-side.” 

“Come away, papa !” cried Florimel. “I don’t like it. I’ve 
had enough of this kind of thing.” 

“Nonsense !” said the marquis, still rubbing his head. 

“ Ye wad spile a’, my leddy ! It’s ower late, forbye,” said 
Malcolm ; “ I hear a fut.” 

He rose and peeped out, but drew back instantly, saying in a 
whisper : 

“ It’s Mistress Catanach wi’ a lantren ! Haud yer tongue, my 
bonny leddy ; ye ken weel she’s no mowse. Dinna try to leuk, 
my lord ; she micht get a glimp o’ ye — she’s terrible gleg. I hae 
been hearin’ mair yet aboot her. Yer lordship ’s ill to convence, 
but depen’ upo’ ’t, whaurever that woman is, there there’s mis- 
cheef ! Whaur she taks x scunner at a body, she hates like the 
verra deevil. She winna aye lat them ken ’t, but taks time to 
du her ill turns. An’ it ’s no that only, but gien she gets a haud 
o’ onything agane onybody, she ’ll save ’t up upo’ the chance o’ 
their giein’ her some offence afore they dee. She never lowses 
haud o’ the tail o’ a thing, an’ ;at her ain proaper time, she ’s in 
her natur’ bun’ to mak the warst use o’ ’t.” 

Malcolm was anxious both to keep them still, and to turn aside 
any further inquiry as to the face Florimel had seen. Again he 
peeped out. 

“ What is she efter noo ? She ’s cornin’ this gait,” he went on, 
in a succession of whispers, turning his head back over his 
shoulder when he spoke. “ Gien she thoucht ther was a hole i’ 
the perris she didna ken a’ the oots an’ ins o’, it wad haud her 
ohn sleepit. — Weesht ! weesht ! here she comes !” he concluded, 
after a listening pause, in the silence of which he could hear her 
step approaching. 

He stretched out his neck over the ledge, and saw her coming 
straight for the back of the cave, looking right before her with 
slow-moving, keen, wicked eyes. It was impossible to say what 
made them look wicked : neither in form, colour, motion, nor 
light, were they ugly— yet in everyone of these they looked 


THE BAILLIES BARN. 


2$7 


wicked, as her lant ern, which, being of horn, she had opened for 
more light, now and then, as it swung in her hand, shone up on 
her pale, pulpy, evil countenance. 

“ Gien she tries to come up, I’ll hae to caw her doon,” he said 
to himself, “ an’ I dinna like it, for she ’s a wuman efter a’, though 
a deevilich kin’ o’ a ane ; but there’s my leddy 1 I hae broucht 
her intill ’t, an’ I maun see her safe oot o’ ’t !” 

But if Mrs. Catanach was bent on an exploration, she was 
for the time prevented from prosecuting it by the approach of 
the first of the worshippers, whose voices they now plainly heard. 
She retreated towards the middle of the cave, and sat down in a 
dark corner, closing her lantern and hiding it with the skirt of 
her long cloak. Presently a good many entered at once, some 
carrying lanterns, and most of them tallow candles, which they 
quickly lighted and disposed about the walls. The rest of the 
congregation, with its leaders, came trooping in so fast, that in 
ten minutes or so the service began. 

As soon as the singing commenced, Malcolm whispered to 
Lady Florimel, — 

“Was ’t a man’s face or a lassie’s ye saw, my leddy?” 

“ A man’s face — the same we saw in the storm,” she answered, 
and Malcolm felt her shudder as she spoke. 

“ It 's naething but the mad laird,” he said. “ He ’s better nor 
hairmless. Dinna say a word to yer father my leddy. I dinna 
like to say that, but I ’ll tell ye a’ what for efterhin’.” 

But Florimel, knowing that her father had a horror of lunatics, 
was willing enough to be silent. 

No sooner was her terror thus assuaged, than the oddities of 
the singing laid hold upon her, stirring up a most tyrannous im- 
pulse to laughter. The prayer that folio wed made it worse. In 
itself the prayer was perfectly reverent, and yet, for dread of 
irreverence, I must not attempt a representation of the forms of 
its embodiment, or the manner of its utterance. 

So uncontrollable did her inclination to merriment become, 
that she found at last the only way to keep from bursting into 
loud laughter was to slacken the curb, and go off at a canter — I 
mean, to laugh freely but gently. This so infected her father, 
that he straightway accompanied her, but with more noise. 
Malcolm sat in misery, from the fear not so much of discovery, 
thodgh that would be awkward enough, as of the loss to the laird 
of his best refuge. But when he reflected, he doubted much 
whether, it was even now a safe one ; and, anyhow, knew it would 
be as vain to remonstrate as to try to stop the noise of a brook 
by casting pebbles into it 


288 


MALCOLM. 


When it came to the sermon, however, things went better ; for 
MacLeod was the preacher, — an eloquent man after his kind, in 
virtue of the genuine earnestness of which he was full. If his 
anxiety for others appeared to be rather to save them from the 
consequences of their sins, his main desire for himself certainly 
was to be delivered from evil ; the growth of his spiritual nature, 
while it rendered him more and more dissatisfied with himself, 
had long left behind all fear save of doing wrong. His sermon 
this evening was founded on the text : “ The natural man re- 
ceiveth not the things of the Spirit of God.” He spoke fervently 
and persuasively ; nor, although his tone and accent were odd, 
and his Celtic modes and phrases to those Saxon ears outlandish, 
did these peculiarities in the least injure the influence of the man. 
Even from Florimel was the demon of laughter driven ; and the 
marquis, although not a single notion of what the man intended 
passed through the doors of his understanding, sat quiet, and 
disapproved of nothing. Possibly, had he been alone as he 
listened, he too, like one of old, might have heard, in the dark 
cave, the still small voice of a presence urging him forth to the 
light ; but, as it was, the whole utterance passed without a single 
word or phrase or sentence having roused a thought, or suggested 
a doubt, or moved a question, or hinted an objection or a need 
of explanation. That the people present should interest them- 
selves in such things, only set before him the folly of mankind. 
The text and the preacher both kept telling him that such as he 
could by no possibility have the slightest notion what such things 
were; but not the less did he, as if he knew all about them, 
wonder how the deluded fisher-folk could sit and listen. The 
more tired he grew, the more angry he got with the parson who 
had sent him there with his foolery : and the more convinced 
that the men who prayed and preached were as honest as they 
were silly ; and that the thing to die of itself had only to be let 
alone. He heard the Amen of the benediction with a sigh of 
relief, and rose at once — cautiously this time. 

“Ye maunna gang yet, my lord,” said Malcolm. “ They maun 
be a’ oot first” 

“ I don’t care who sees me,” protested the weary man. 

“ But yer lordship wadna like to be descriet scram’lin’ doon 
efter the back like the bear in Robinson Crusoe !” 

The marquis grumbled, and yielded impatiently. 

At length Malcolm, concluding from the silence that the meet- 
ing had throughly skciilcd, peeped cautiously out to make sure. 
But after a moment, he drew back, saying in a regretful whisper, — * 

“ I ’m sorry ye canna gang yet, my lord. There’s some half a 


THE BAILLIES BARN . 


289 


dizzen o’ ill-luikin* chields, cairds {gipsies), I ’m thinkin’, or maybe 
waur, congregat doon there, an’ it ’s my opingon they’re efter nae 
guid, my lord.” 

“ How do you know that ?” 

“ Ony body wad ken that, ’at got a glimp o’ them.” 

“ Let me look.” 

“ Na, my lord ; ye dinna understan’ the lie o’ the stanes eneuch 
to haud oot o’ sicht.” 

“ How long do you mean to keep us here ?” asked the marquis 
impatiently. 

“Till it’s safe to gang, my lord. For onything I ken, they 
may be efter cornin’ up here. They may be used to the place — 
though I dinna think it.” 

“ In that case we must go down at once. We must not let 
them find us here.” 

“ They wad tak ’s ane by ane as we gaed doon, my lord, an’ 
we wadna hae a chance. Think o’ my leddy there ! ” 

Florimel heard all, but with the courage of her race. 

“ This is a fine position you have brought us into, MacPhail !” 
said his master, now thoroughly uneasy for his daughter’s sake. 

“Nae waur nor I’ll tak ye oot o’, gien ye lippen to me, my 
lord, an’ no speyk a word.” 

“ If you tell them who papa is,” said Florimel, “ they won’t do 
us any harm, surely ! ” 

“ I ’m nane sae sure o’ that. They micht want to ripe ’s 
pooches {search his pockets ), an’ my lord wad ill stan’ that, I ’m 
thinkin’ ! Na, na. Jist stan’ ye back, my lord an’ my leddy, an’ 
dinna speyk a word. I s’ sattle them. They’re sic villains, there 
’s nae terms to be hauden wi’ them.” 

His lordship was far from satisfied ; but a light shining up into 
the crevice at the moment, gave powerful support to Malcolm’s 
authority : he took Florimel’s hand and drew her a little farther 
from the mouth of the cave. 

“Don’t you wish we had Demon with us?” whispered the 
girl. 

“ I was thinking how I never went without a dagger in Venice,” 
said the marquis, “ and never once had occasion to use it. Now 
I haven’t even a penknife about me ! It looks very awkward.” 

“ Please don’t talk like that,” said Florimel. “ Can’t you trust 
Malcolm, papa ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ; perfectly !” he answered ; but the tone was hardly 
up to the words. 

They could see the dim figure of Malcolm, outlined in fits of 
the approaching light, all but filling the narrow entrance, as he bent 


290 


MALCOLM. 


forward to liiten. Presently he laid himself down, leaning on his 
left elbow, with his right shoulder only a little above the level of 
the passage. The light came nearer, and they heard the sound 
of scrambling on the rock, but no voice ; then for one moment 
the light shone clear upon the roof of the cleft ; the next, came 
the sound of a dull blow, the light vanished, and the noise of a 
heavy fall came from beneath. 

“ Ane o’ them, my lord,” said Malcolm, in a sharp whisper, over 
his shoulder. 

A confusion of voices arose. 

“ You booby !” said one. “ You climb like a calf. I’ll go 
next.” 

Evidently they thought he had slipped and fallen, and he was 
unable to set them right. Malcolm heard them drag him out of 
the way. 

The second ascended more rapidly, and met his fate the sooner. 
As he delivered the blow, Malcolm recognized one of the laird’s 
assailants, and was now perfectly at his ease. 

“Twa o’ them, my lord,” he said. *‘Gien we had ane mair 
do on, we cud manage the lave.” 

The second, however, had not lost his speech, and amidst the 
confused talk that followed, Malcolm heard the words : “ Rin 
doon to the coble for the gun,” and, immediately after, the sound 
of feet hurrying from the cave. He rose quietly, leaped into the 
midst of them, came down upon one, and struck out right and 
left. Two ran, and three lay where they were. 

“ Gien ane o’ ye muv han’ or fit, I’ll brain him wi’ ’s ain stick,” 
he cried, as he wrenched a cudgel from the grasp of one of them. 
Then catching up a lantern, and hurrying behind the projecting 
rock — “ Haste ye, an’ come,” he shouted. “ The w’y ’s clear, but 
only for a meenute.” 

Florimel appeared, and Malcolm got her down. 

“ Mind that fellow,” cried the marquis from above. 

Malcolm turned quickly, and saw the gleam of a knife in the 
grasp of his old enemy, who had risen, and crept behind him to 
the recess. He flung the lantern in his face, following it with a 
blow in which were concentrated all the weight and energy of his 
frame. The man went down again heavily, and Malcolm instantly 
trampled all their lanterns to pieces. 

“ Noo,” he said to himself, “they winna ken but it ’s the laird 
an’ Phemy wi’ me ! ” 

Then turning, and taking Florimel by the arm, he hurried her 
out of the cave, followed by the marquis. 

They emerged in the liquid darkness of a starry night Lady 


THE BAILLIES BARM 


29! 


Florimel clung to both her father and Malcolm. It was a rough 
way for some little distance, but at length they reached the hard 
wet sand, and the marquis would have stopped to take breath ; 
but Malcolm was uneasy, and hurried them on. 

“ What are you frightened at now ? ” asked his lordship. 

“ Naething,” answered Malcolm, adding to himself however, — 
u I ’m fleyt at naething — I ’m fleyt for the laird.* 

As they approached the tunnel, he fell behind. 

“ Why don’t you come on?” said his lordship. 

“ I J m gaein’ back noo ’at ye ’re safe,” said Malcolm. 

“ Going back ! What for?” asked the marquis. 

“ I maun see what thae villains are up till,” answered Malcolm. 

“Not alone, surely!” exclaimed the marquis. “At least get 
some of your people to go with you.” 

“ There ’s nae time, my lord. Dinna be fleyt for me : I s’ tak 
care o’ mysel’.” 

He was already yards away, running at full speed. The mar- 
quis shouted after him, but Malcolm would not hear. 

When he reached the Baillies’ Barn once more, all was still. 
He groped his way in and found his own lantern where they had 
been sitting, and having lighted it, descended and followed the 
windings of the cavern a long way, but saw nothing of the laird 
or Phemy. Coming at length to a spot where he heard the rush- 
ing of a stream, he found he could go no farther : the roof of the 
cave had fallen, and blocked up the way with huge masses of 
stone and earth. He had come a good distance certainly, but by no 
means so far as Phemy’s imagination had represented the reach 
of the cavern. He might however have missed a turn, he 
thought. 

The sound he heard was that of the Lossie Bum, flowing along 
in the starlight through the grounds of the House. Of this he 
satisfied himself afterwards ; and then it seemed to him not 
unlikely that in ancient times the river had found its way to the 
sea along the cave, for throughout its length the action of water 
was plainly visible. But perhaps the sea itself had used to go 
roaring along the great duct: Malcolm was no geologist, and 
could not tel! 


MALCOLM. 


29 a 


CHAPTER XLVIL 

mrs stewards claim. 

The weather became unsettled with the approach of winter, and 
the marquis had a boat-house built at the west end of the Seaton : 
there the little cutter was laid up, well wrapt in tarpaulins, like a 
butterfly returned to the golden coffln of her internatal chrysalis. 
A great part of his resulting leisure, Malcolm spent with Mr 
Graham, to whom he had, as a matter of course, unfolded the 
trouble caused him by Duncan’s communication. 

The more thoughtful a man is, and the more conscious of what 
is going on within himself, the more interest will he take in 
what he can know of his progenitors, to the remotest generations ; 
and a regard to ancestral honours, however contemptible the 
forms which the appropriation of them often assumes, is a plant 
rooted in the deepest soil of humanity. The high-souled labourer 
will yield to none in his respect for the dignity of his origin, and 
Malcolm had been as proud of the humble descent he supposed 
his own, as Lord Lossie was of his mighty ancestry. Malcolm 
had indeed a loftier sense of resulting dignity than his master. 

He reverenced Duncan both for his uprightness and for a 
certain grandeur of spirit, which, however ridiculous to the 
common eye, would have been glorious in the eyes of the chivalry 
of old ; he looked up to him with admiration because of his gifts 
in poetry and music ; and loved him endlessly for his unfailing 
goodness and tenderness to himself. Even the hatred of the 
grand old man had an element of unselfishness in its retroaction, 
of power in its persistency, and of greatness in its absolute con- 
tempt of compromise. At the same time he was the only human 
being to whom Malcolm’s heart had gone forth as to his own ; 
and now, with the knowledge of yet deeper cause for loving him, 
he had to part with the sense of a filial relation to him ! And this 
involved more ; for so thoroughly had the old man come to regard 
the boy as his offspring, that he had nourished in him his own 
pride of family ; and it added a sting of mortification to Mal- 
colm’s sorrow, that the greatness of the legendary descent in 
which he had believed, and the honourableness of the mournful 
history with which his thoughts of himself had been so closely 
associated, were swept from him utterly. Nor was this all even 
yet : in losing these he had had, as it were, to let go his hold, 
not of his clan merely, but of his race : every link of kin that 


MRS STEWARTS CLAIM. 


293 


bound him to humanity had melted away from his grasp. Sud- 
denly he would become aware that his heart was sinking within 
him, and questioning it why, would learn anew that he was alone 
in the world, a being without parents, without sister or brother, 
with none to whom he might look in the lovely confidence of a 
right bequeathed by some common mother, near or afar. He 
had waked into being, but all around him was dark, for there 
was no window, that is, no kindred eye, by which the light of the 
world whence he had come, entering might console him. 

But a gulf of blackness was about to open at his feet, against 
which the darkness he now lamented would show purple and 
gray. 

One afternoon, as he passed through the Seaton from the har- 
bour, to have a look at the cutter, he heard the Partaness calling 
after him. 

“ Weel, ye’re a sicht for sair een — noo ’at ye’re like to turn oot 
something worth luikin’ at 1” she cried, as he approached with 
his usual friendly smile. 

“What du ye mean by that, Mistress Findlay?” asked Mal- 
colm, carelessly adding : “ Ts yer man in?” 

“ Ay !” she went on, without heeding either question ; “ ye’ll 
be gran’ set up noo ! Ye’ll no be hain’ ‘ a fine day’ to fling at 
yer auld freen’s, the puir fisher-fowk, or lang ! Weel ! it’s the w’y 
o’ the warl ! Hech, sirs !” 

“ What on earth ’s set ye aff like that Mrs Findlay?” said Mal- 
colm. “ It’s nae sic a feerious (furious) gran’ thing to be my 
lord’s skipper — or henchman, as my daddy wad hae ’t — surely ! 
It’s a heap gran’er like to be a free fisherman, wi’ a boat o’ yer 
ain, like the Partan !” 

“ Hoots ! Nane o’ yer clavers ! Ye ken weel eneuch what I 
mean — as weel ’s ilka ither creatit sowl o’ Portlossie. An’ gien 
ye dinna chowse to lat on aboot it till an auld freen’ cause she’s 
naething but a fisherwife, it’s dune ye mair skaith a’ready nor I 
thocht it wad to the lang last, Ma’colm — for it ’s yer ain name I 
s’ ca’ ye yet, gien ye war ten times a laird ! — didna I gie ye the 
breist whan ye cud du naething i’ the wardle but sowk ? — An’ 
weel ye sowkit, puir innocent — ’at ye was ! ” 

“ As sure’s we’re baith alive,” asseverated Malcolm, “ I ken 
nae mair nor a sawtit herrin’ what ye’re drivin’ at.” 

“Tell me ’at ye dinna ken what a’ the queentry kens — an’ hit 
nboot yer ain sel’ ! ” screamed the Partaness. 

“ I tell ye I ken naething ; an’ gien ye dinna tell me what 
ye’re efter direckly, I s’ haud awa’ to Mistress Ailison : she ’ll 
tell me.” 


294 


! MALCOLM . . 


This was a threat sufficiently prevailing. 

“It’s no in natur’ !” she cried. “ Here’s Mistress Stewart o* 
the Gersefell been cawin’ (driving) like mad aboot the place, in 
her cairriage an’ hoo mony horse I dinna ken, declarin’, ay, 
sweirin’, they tell me, ’at ane cowmonly ca’d Ma’c.olm MacPhail 
is neither mair nor less nor the son born o’ her ain boady 
in honest wadlock ! — an’ tell me ye ken naething aboot it ! 
— What are ye stan’in’ like that for — as gray-mou’d ’s a deem* 
skate ? ” 

For the first time in his life, Malcolm, young and strong as he 
was, felt sick. Sea and sky grew dim before him, and the earth 
seemed to reel under him. 

“ I dinna believe ’t,” he faltered — and turned away. 

“Ye dinna believe what I tell ye!” screeched the wrathful 
Partaness. “ Ye daur to say the word ! ” 

But Malcolm did not care to reply. He wandered away, halt 
unconscious of where he was, his head hanging, and his eyes 
creeping over the ground. The words of the woman kept ringing 
in his ears ; but ever and anon, behind them as it were in the 
depth of his soul, he heard the voice of the mad laird, with its 
one lamentation : “ I dinna ken whaur I cam’ frae.” Finding 
himself at length at Mr Graham’s door, he wondered how he had 
got there. 

It was Saturday afternoon, and the master was in the church- 
yard. Startled by Malcolm’s look, he gazed at him in grave 
silent enquiry. 

“ Hae ye h’ard the ill news, sir ? ” said the youth. 

“ No ; I’m sorry to hear there is any.” 

“They tell me Mistress Stewart’s rinnin’ aboot the toon 
claimin’ me!”' 

“ Claiming you ! — How do you mean ? ” 

“ For her ain ! ” 

“ Not for her son ?” 

“ Ay, sir— that ’s what they say. But ye haena h’ard o’ ’t ? * 

“ Not a word.” 

“ Then I believe it’s a’ havers ! ” cried Malcolm energetically. 
“ It was sair eneuch upo’ me a’ready to ken less o’ whaur I cam 
frae than the puir laird himsel’ ; but to come frae whaur he cam 
frae, was a thocht ower sair ! ” 

“ You don’t surely despise the poor fellow so much as to scorn 
to have the same parents with him ! ” said Mr Graham. 

“ The verra contrar’, sir. But a wuman wha wad sae misguide 
the son o’ her ain body, an’ for naething but that, as shs had 
broucht him furth, sic he was !— it ’s no to be lichtly telieved 


MRS STEWARTS CLAIM. 


29s 

nor lichtly endured. I s’ awa’ to Miss Horn an’ see whether 
she ’s h’ard ony sic leeing clashes.” 

But as Malcolm uttered her name, his heart sank within him, 
for their talk the night he had sought her hospitality for the laird, 
came back to his memory, burning like an acrid poison. 

“ You can’t do better,” said Mr Graham. “ The report itself 
may be false — or true, and the lady mistaken.” 

“ She’ll hae to pruv ’t weel afore I say hand ,” rejoined Mal- 
colm. 

“ And suppose she does ? ” 

“ In that case,” said Malcolm, with a composure almost 
ghastly, “a man maun tak what mither it pleases God to gie him. 
But faith ! she winna du wi’ me as wi’ the puir laird. Gien she 
taks me up, she’ll repent ’at she didna lat me lie. She’ll be as 
little pleased wi’ the tane o’ her sons as the tither — I can tell 
her, ohn propheseed ! ” 

“ But think what you might do between mother and son,” 
suggested the master, willing to reconcile him to the possible 
worst 

“It’s ower late for that,” he answered. “The puir man’s 
thairms {fiddle -strings') are a’ hingin’ lowse, an’ there’s no grip 
eneuch i’ the pegs to set them up again. He wad but think I 
had gane ower to the enemy, an’ haud oot o’ my gait as eident 
{diligently) as he hauds oot o’ hers. Na, it wad du naething for 
him. Gien ’t wama for what I see in him , I wad hae a gran’ 
rebutter to her claim ; for hoo cud ony wuman’s ain son hae sic 
a scunner at her as I hae i’ my hert an’ brain an’ verra stamach 
Gien she war my ain mither, there bude to be some nait’ral 
drawin’s atween ’s, a body wad think. But it winna haud, for 
there’s the laird ! The verra name o’ mither gars him steik his 
lugs an’ rin.” 

“ Still, if she be your mother, it’s for better for worse as much 
as if she had been your own choice.” 

“ I kenna weel hoo it cud be for waur,” said Malcolm, who 
did not yet, even from his recollection of the things Miss Horn 
had said, comprehend what worst threatened him. 

“ It does seem strange,” said the master thoughtfully, after a 
pause, that some women should be allowed to be mothers ! — 
that through them sons and daughters of God should come into 
the world — thief-babies, say ! human parasites, with no choice 
but feed on the social body ! ” 

“ I wonner what God thinks aboot it a’ ! It gars a body spies* 
whether he cares or no,” said Malcolm gloomily. 

“ It does,” responded Mr Graham solemnly. 


295 


MALCOLM . 


“ Div ye alloo that, sir?” returned Malcolm aghast “That 
soon’s as gien a’thing war rushin’ thegither back to the auld 

chaos.” 

“ T should not be surprised,” continued the master, apparently 
heedless of Malcolm’s consternation, “ if the day should come 
when well-meaning men, excellent in the commonplace, but of 
dwarfed imagination, refused to believe in a God on the ground 
of apparent injustice in the very frame and constitution of things. 
Such would argue, that there might be either an omnipotent being 
who did not care, or a good being who could not help ; but that 
there could not be a being both all-good and omnipotent, for such 
would never have suffered things to be as they are.” 

“ What wad the clergy say to hear ye, sir 'l ” said Malcolm, 
himself almost trembling at the words of his master. 

“ Nothing to the purpose, I fear. They would never face the 
question. I know what they would do if they could, — burn me, 
as their spiritual ancestor, Calvin, would have done — whose 
shoe-latchet they are yet not worthy to unloose. But mind, my 
boy, you’ve not heard me speak my thought on the matter at all.” 

“ But wadna ’t be better to believe in twa Gods nor nane ava’?” 
propounded Malcolm ; — “ ane a’ guid, duin’ the best for ’s he cud, 
the ither a’ ill, but as pooerfu’ as the guid ane — an’ forever an’ aye 
a fecht atween them, whiles ane gettin’ the warst o’ ’t, an whiles 
the ither ? It wad quaiet yer hert ony gait, an’ the battle o’ Arma- 
geddon wad gang on as gran’ ’s ever.” 

“ Two Gods there could not be,” said Mr Graham. “ Of the 
two beings supposed, the evil one must be called devil, were he 
ten times the more powerful.” 

“ Wi’ a’ my hert,” responded Malcolm. 

“ But I agree with you,” the master went on, that “ Manicheism 
is unspeakably better than atheism, and imthinkably better than 
believing in an unjust God. But I am not driven to such a 
theory.” 

“ Hae ye ane o’ yer ain ’at ’ll fit, sir ? ” 

“ If I knew of a theory in which was never an uncompleted 
arch or turret, in whose circling wall was never a ragged breach, 
that theory I should know but to avoid : such gaps are the eternal 
windows through which the dawn shall look in. A complete 
theory is a vault of stone around the theorist — whose very being 
yet depends on room to grow.” 

“ Weel, I wad like to hear what ye hae agane Manicheism ? ” 

“ The main objection of theologians would be, I presume, 
that it did not present a God perfect in power as in goodness ; 
but I think it a far more objectionable point that it presents evil 


MRS STEWART’S CLAIM, 


297 


as possessing power in itself. My chief objection, however, 
would be a far deeper one — namely, that its good being cannot 
be absolutely good ; for, if he knew himself unable to insure 
the well-being of his creatures, if he could not avoid exposing 
them to such foreign attack, had he a right to create them? 
Would he have chosen such a doubtful existence for one whom 
he meant to love absolutely ? — Either, then, he did not love like 
a God, or he would not have created.” 

“ He micht ken himsel' sure to win i’ the lang rin.” 

“ Grant the same to the God of the Bible, and we come back 
to where we were before.” 

“ Does that satisfee yersel’, Maister Graham ? ” asked Malcolm, 
looking deep into the eyes of his teacher. 

“ Not at all,” answered the master. 

“ Does onything ? ” 

“Yes: but I will not say more on the subject now. The 
time may come when I shall have to speak that which I have 
learned, but it is not yet. All I will say now is, that I am at 
peace concerning the question. Indeed, so utterly do I feel 
myself the offspring of the One, that it would be enough for my 
peace now — I don’t say it would have been always — to know my 
mind troubled on a matter : what troubled me would trouble 
God : my trouble at the seeming wrong must have its being in 
the right existent in him. In him, supposing I could find none, 
I should yet say there must lie a lucent, harmonious, eternal, 
not merely consoling, but absolutely satisfying solution.” 

“ Winna ye tell me a’ ’at ’s in yer hert aboot it, sir ? ” 

“Not now, my boy. You have got one thing to mind now — 
before all other things — namely, that you give this woman — - 
whatever she be — fair play : if she be your mother, as such you 
must take her, that is, as such you must treat her.” 

“Ye ’re richt, sir,” returned Malcolm, and rose. 

“ Come back to me/’ said Mr Graham, “ with whatever news 
you gather.” 

“ I will, sir,” answered Malcolm, and went to find Miss Horn. 

He was shown into the little parlour, which, for all the grander 
things he had been amongst of late, had lost nothing of its first 
charm. There sat Miss Horn. 

“ Sit doon, Ma’colm,” she said gruffly. 

“ Hae ye h’ard onything, mem ? ” asked Malcolm, standing. 

“ Ay, ower muckle,” answered Miss Horn, with all but a scowl 
“Ye been ower to Gersefell, I reckon.” 

“ Forbid it 1 ” answered Malcolm. “ Never till this hoor — or 
at maist it’s nae twa sin’ I h’ard the first cheep o’ ’t, an’ that 


298 


MALCOLM. 


was frae Meg Partan. To nae human sowl hae I made mention 
o’ ’t yet ’t ’cep’ Maister Graham : to him I gaed direck.” 

“Ye cudna hae dune better,” said the grim woman, with 
relaxing visage. 

“ An’ here I am the noo, straucht frae him, to beg o’ you. 
Miss Horn, to tell me the trowth o’ the maitter.” 

“ What ken I aboot it ? ” she returned angrily. “ What sud I 
ken ? ” 

“Ye micht ken whether the wuman’s been sayin’ *t or no.” 

“ Wha has ony doobt aboot that ? ” 

“ Mistress Stewart has been sayin’ she’s my mither, than ? ” . 

“ Ay — what for no ? ” returned Miss Horn, with a piercing 
glower at the youth. 

“ Guid forfen’ ! ” exclaimed Malcolm. 

“ Say ye that, laddie ? ” cried Miss Horn, and, starting up, she 
grasped his arm and stood gazing in his face. 

“What ither sud I say?” rejoined Malcolm, surprised. 

“ God be laudit ! ” exclaimed Miss Horn. “ The limmer may 
say ’at she likes noo.” 

“ Ye dinna believe ’t than, mem ? ” cried Malcolm. " Tell 
me ye dinna, an’ haud me ohn curst like a cadger.” 

“ I dinna believe ae word o’ % laddie,” answered Miss Horn 
eagerly. “ Wha cud believe sic a fine laad come o’ sic a fause 
mither ? ” 

“ She micht be ony body’s mither, an’ fause tu,” said Malcolm 
gloomily. 

“ That’s true laddie ; and the mair mither the fauser ! There’s 
a warl’ o’ witness i’ your face ’at gien she be yer mither, the 
markis, an no puir honest hen-peckit John Stewart, was the father 
o’ ye. — The Lord forgie’ me ! what am I sayin’ ! ” adjected Miss 
Horn, with a cry of self-accusation, when she saw the pallor that 
overspread the countenance of the' youth, and his head drop 
upon his bosom : the last arrow had sunk to the feather. “ It’s 
a’ havers, ony gait,” she quickly resumed. “ I div not believe 
ye hae ae drap o’ her bluid i’ the body o’ ye, man. But,” she 
hurried on, as if eager to obliterate the scoring impression of her 
late words — “ that she’s been sayin’ ’t, there can be no mainner 
o’ doot. I saw her mysel’ rinnin’ aboot the toon, frae ane till 
anither, wi’ her lang hair doon the lang back o’ her, an’ fleein’ i’ 
the win’, like a body dementit. The only question is, whether or 
110 she believes ’t hersel’.” 

“ What cud gar her say ’t gien she didna believe ’t ? ” 

“ Fowk says she expecs that w’y to get a grip o’ things oot o* 
the ban’s o’ the puir laird’s trustees : ye wad be a son o’ her ain, 


MRS STEWARTS CLAIM. 


299 

cawpable o’ mainagin’ them. But ye dinna tell me she’s never 
been at yersel’ aboot it ? ” 

“ Never a blink o’ the ee has passed atween’s sin’ that day I 
gaed till Gersefell, as I tellt ye, wi’ a letter frae the markis. I 
thoucht I was ower money for her than : I wonner she daur be at 
me again.” 

“ She ’s daurt her God er* noo, an’ may weel daur you. — But 
what says yer gran’father till ’t, no ? ” 

“He hasna hard a chuckie’s cheep o’ ’t.” 

“ What are we haverin’ at than h Canna he sattle the maitter 
aff han’ ? ” 

Miss Horn eyed him keenly as she spoke. 

“ He kens nae mair aboot whaur I come frae, mem, nor your 
Jean, wha ’s hearkenin’ at the keyhole this verra meenute.” 

The quick ear of Malcolm had caught a slight sound of the 
handle, whose proximity to the key-hole was no doubt often 
troublesome to Jean. 

Miss Horn seemed to reach the door with one spang. Jean 
was ascending the last step of the stair with a message on her 
lips concerning butter and eggs. Miss Horn received it, and 
went back to Malcolm. 

“Naj Jean wadna du that,” she said quietly. 

But she was wrong, for, hearing Malcolm’s words, Jean had 
retreated one step down the stair, and turned. 

“But what’s this ye tell me aboot yer gran’father, honest man ?” 
Miss Horn continued. 

“ Duncan MacPhail’s nae bluid o’ mine — the maids the pity! 
said Malcolm sadly — and told her all he knew. 

Miss Horn’s visage went through wonderful changes as he 
spoke. 

“ Weel, it is a mercy I hae nae feelin’s ! ” she said when he 
had done. 

“ Ony wuman can lay a claim till me ’at likes, ye see,” said 
Malcolm. 

“ She may lay ’at she likes, but it’s no ilka egg laid has a 
chuckie intill ’t,” answered Miss Horn sententiously. “Jist ye 
gang hame to auld Duncan, an’ tell him to turn the thing ower 
in 's min’ till he’s able to sweir to the verra nicht he fan’ the 
bairn in ’s lap. But no ae word maun he say to leevin’ sowl 
aboot it afore it’s requiret o’ ’im.” 

“ I wad be the son o’ the puirest fisher-wife i’ the Seaton 
raither nor hers,” said Malcolm gloomily. 

“ An’ it shaws ye better bred,” said Miss Horn. “ But she’ll 
be at ye or lang— an’ tak ye tent what ye say. Dinna flee in her 


3oo 


MALCOLM. 


face ; lat her jaw awa*, an’ mark her words. She may lat a streak 
o’ licht oot o’ her dirk lantren oonawaurs.” 

Malcolm returned to Mr Graham. They agreed there was 
nothing for it but to wait. He went next to his grandfather and 
gave him Miss Horn’s message. The old man fell a thinking, 
but could not be certain even of the year in which he had left 
his home. The clouds hung very black around Malcolm’s 
horizon. 

Since the adventure in the Baillies’ Barn, Lady Florimel had 
been on a visit in Morayshire : she heard nothing of the report 
until she returned. 

“ So you’re a gentleman after all, Malcolm ! ” she said, the 
next time she saw him. 

The expression in her eyes appeared to him different from any 
he had encountered there before. The blood rushed to his face ; 
he dropped his head, and saying merely, “ It maun be a’ as it 
maun,’’ pursued the occupation of the moment 

But her words sent a new wind blowing into the fog. A 
gentleman she had said ! Gentlemen married ladies ! Could it 
be that a glory it was madness to dream of, was yet a possibility ? 
One moment, and his honest heart recoiled from the thought : 
not even for Lady Florimel could he consent to be the son of that 
woman ! Yet the thought, especially in Lady Florimel’s presence, 
would return, would linger, would whisper, would tempt. 

In Florimel’s mind also, a small demon of romance was at 
work. Uncorrupted as yet by social influences, it would not 
have seemed to her absurd that an heiress of rank should marry 
a poor country gentleman ; but the thought of marriage never 
entered her head : she only felt that the discovery justified a 
nearer approach from both sides. She had nothing, not even a 
flirtation in view. Flirt she might, likely enough, but she did 
not foremean it. 

Had Malcolm been a schemer, he would have tried to make 
something of his position. But even the growth of his love for 
his young mistress was held in check by the fear of what that 
love tempted him to desire. 

Lady Florimel had by this time got so used to his tone and 
dialect, hearing* it on all sides of her, that its quaintness hrd 
ceased to affect her, and its coarseness had begun to inf uence 
her repulsively. There were still to be found in Scotland oi l- 
fashioned gentlefolk speaking the language of the country with 
purity and refinement ; but Florimel had never met any of then., 
or she might possibly have been a little less repelled by Malcolm’s 
speech. 


MRS STEWARTS CLAIM. 


301 


Within a day or two of her return, Mrs Stewart called at Lossie 
House, and had a long talk with her, in the course of which she 
found no difficulty in gaining her to promise her influence with 
Malcolm. From his behaviour on the occasion of their sole 
interview, she stood in a vague awe of him, and indeed could 
not recall it without a feeling of rebuke — a feeling which must 
either turn her aside from her purpose or render her the more 
anxious to secure his favour. Hence it came that she had not 
yet sought him : she would have the certainty first that he was 
kindly disposed towards her claim — a thing she would never 
have doubted but for the glimpse she had had of him. 

One Saturday afternoon, about this time, Mr Stewart put his 
head in at the door of the schoolroom, as he had done so often 
already, and seeing the master seated alone at his desk, walked 
in, saying once more, with a polite bow, — 

“ I dinna ken whaur I cam frae : I want to come to the 
school.” 

Mr Graham assured him of welcome as cordially as if it had 
been the first time he came with the request, and yet again 
offered him a chair; but the laird as usual declined it, and 
walked down the room to find a seat with his companion-scholars. 
He stopped midway, however, and returned to the desk, where, 
standing on tip-toe, he whispered in the master’s ear : “ I canna 
come upo’ the door.” Then turning away again, he crept de 
jectedly to a seat where some of the girls had made room for 
him. There he took a slate, and began drawing what might 
seem an attempt at a door ; but ever as he drew he blotted out, 
and nothing that could be called a door was the result. Mean- 
time, Mr Graham was pondering at intervals what he had said. 

School being over, the laird was modestly leaving with the 
rest, when the master gently called him, and requested the favour 
of a moment more of his company. As soon as they were alone, 
he took a Bible from his desk, and read the words : 

“ I am the door : by me if any man enter in, he shall be saved, 
and shall go in and out, and find pasture.” 

Without comment, he closed the book, and put it away. Mr 
Stewart stood staring up at him for a moment, then turned, and 
gently murmuring, “ I canna win at the door,” walked from the 
school-house. 

It was refuge the poor fellow sought — whether from temporal 
or spiritual foes will matter little to him who believes that the 
only shelter from the one is the only shelter from the othe^ also. 


MALCOLM , ; 


30a 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 

THE BAILLIES’ BARN AGAIN. 

It began to be whispered about Portlossie, that the marquis had 
been present at one of the fishermen’s meetings — a report which 
variously affected the minds of those in the habit of composing 
them. Some regarded it as an act of espial, and much foolish 
talk arose about the covenanters and persecution and martyrdom. 
Others, especially the less worthy of those capable of public 
utterance, who were by this time, in virtue of that sole gift, gain- 
ing an influence of which they were altogether unworthy, 
attributed it to the spreading renown of the preaching and pray- 
ing members of the community, and each longed for an oppor- 
tunity of exercising his individual gift upon the conscience of the 
marquis. The soberer portion took it for an act of mere curiosity, 
unlikely to be repeated. 

Malcolm saw that the only way of setting things right was that 
the marquis should go again — openly, but it was with much 
difficulty that he persuaded him to present himself in the assembly. 
Again accompanied by his daughter and Malcolm, he did, how- 
ever, once more cross the links to the Baillies’ Barn. Being early 
they had a choice of seats, and Florimel placed herself beside a 
pretty young woman of gentle and troubled countenance, who sat 
leaning against the side of the cavern. 

The preacher on this occasion was the sickly young student — 
more pale and haggard than ever, and half-way nearer the grave 
since his first sermon. He still set himself to frighten the sheep 
into the fold by wolfish cries ; but it must be allowed that, in this 
sermon at least, his representations of the miseries of the lost 
were not by any means so gross as those usually favoured by 
preachers of his kind. His imagination was sensitive enough to 
be roused by the words of Scripture themselves, and was not 
dependent for stimulus upon those of Virgil, Dante, or Milton. 
Having taken for his text the fourteenth verse of the fifty-ninth 
psalm, “And at evening let them return; and let them make a noise 
like a dog, and go round about the city,” he dwelt first upon the 
condition and character of the eastern dog as contrasted with 
those of our dogs ; pointing out to his hearers, that so far from 
being valued for use or beauty or rarity, they were, except swine, 
of all animals the most despised by the Jews — the vile outcasts 
of the border-land separating animals domestic and ferine — filthy, 


THE BAILLIE'S BARN AGAIN 


303 


dangerous, and hated ; then associating with his text that passage 
in the Revelation, “ Blessed are they that do his commandments, 
that they may have right to the tree of life, and may enter in 
through the gates into the city ; for without are dogs,” he pro- 
pounded, or rather asserted, that it described one variety of the 
many punishments of the wicked, showing at least a portion cf 
them condemned to rush howling for ever about the walls of the 
New Jerusalem, haunting the gates they durst not enter. 

“ See them through the fog steaming up from the shores ot 
their Phiegethon!” he cried, warming into eloquence; “ — see 
the horrid troop, afar from the crystal walls ! — if indeed ye stand 
on those heights of glory, and course not around them with the 
dogs ! — hear them howl and bark as they scour along ! Gaze at 
them more earnestly as they draw nigher ; see upon the dog-heads 
of them the signs and symbols of rank and authority which they 
wore when they walked erect, men — ay, women too, among men 
and women ! see the crown-jewels flash over the hanging ears, the 
tiara tower thrice-circled over the hungry eyes ! see the plumes 
and the coronets, the hoods and the veils !” 

Here, unhappily for his eloquence, he slid off into the catalogue 
of women’s finery given by the prophet Isaiah, at the close of 
which he naturally found the oratorical impulse gone, and had to 
sit down in the mud of an anticlimax. Presently, however, he 
recovered himself, and, spreading his wings, once more swung 
himself aloft into the empyrean of an eloquence, which, whatever 
else it might or might not be, was at least genuine. 

“Could they but surmount those walls, whose inherent 
radiance is the artillery of their defence, those walls high-up- 
lifted, whose lowest foundations are such stones as make the 
glory of earthly crowns ; could they overleap those gates of pearl, 
and enter the golden streets, what think ye they would do there ? 
Think ye they would rage hither and thither at will, making 
horrid havoc amongst the white-robed inhabitants of the sinless 
capital? Nay, verily; for, in the gold transparent as glass, they 
would see their own vile forms in truth-telling reflex, and, turning 
in agony, would rush yelling back, out again into the darkness — 
the outer darkness — to go round and round the city again and 
for evermore, tenfold tortured henceforth with the memory of 
their visioned selves.” 

Here the girl beside Lady Florimel gave a loud cry, and fell 
backwards from her seat. On all sides arose noises, loud or 
suppressed, mingled with murmurs of expostulation. Even Lady 
Florimel, invaded by shrieks, had to bite her lips hard to keep 
herself from responding with like outcry; for scream will call 


304 MALCOLM. 

forth scream, as vibrant string from its neighbour will chaw the 
answering tone. 

“ Deep calleth unto deep ! The wind is blowing on the slain! 
The Spirit is breathing on the dry bones i” shouted the preacher 
in an ecstacy. But one who rose from behind Lizzy Findlay, 
had arrived at another theory regarding the origin of the com- 
motion — and doubtless had a right to her theory, in as much as 
she was a woman of experience, being no other than Mrs Catanach. 

At the sound of her voice seeking to soothe the girl, Malcolm 
shuddered ; but the next moment, from one of those freaks of 
suggestion which defy analysis, he burst into laughter : he had a 
glimpse of a she-dog, in Mrs Catanach’s Sunday bonnet, bringing 
up the rear of the preacher’s canine company, and his horror of 
the woman found relief in an involuntary outbreak that did not 
spring altogether from merriment. 

It attracted no attention. The cries increased ; for the 
preacher continued to play on the harp-nerves of his hearers, in 
the firm belief that the Spirit was being poured out upon them. 
The marquis, looking very pale, for he could never endure the 
cry of a woman even in a play, rose, and taking Florimel by the 
arm, turned to leave the place. Malcolm hurried to the front to 
make way for them. But the preacher caught sight of the move- 
ment, and, filled with a fury which seemed to him sacred, rushed 
to the rescue of souls. 

“Stop!” he shouted. “Go not hence, I charge you. On 
your lives I charge you ! Turn ye, turn ye : why will ye die ? 
There is no fleeing from Satan. You must resist the devil. He 
that flies is lost If you turn your backs upon Apollyon, he will 
never slacken pace until he has driven you into the troop of his 
dogs, to go howling about the walls of the city. Stop them, 
friends of the cross, ere they step beyond the sound of mercy ; 
for, alas ! the voice of him who is sent cannot reach beyond the 
particle of time wherein he speaks : now, this one solitary 
moment, gleaming out of the eternity before us only to be lost in 
the eternity behind us — this now is the accepted time ; this now 
and no other is the moment of salvation !” 

Most of the men recognized the marquis ; some near the 
entrance saw only Malcolm clearing the way : marquis or fisher, 
it was all the same when souls were at stake : they crowded with 
one consent to oppose their exit : yet another chance they must 
have, whether they would or not. These men were in the mood 
to give — not their own — but those other men’s bodies to be 
ou poorest chance of saving their souls from the evep 
lasting burnings 


THE BAILL1ES’ BARN AGAIN. 


3oS 

Malcolm would have been ready enough for a fight, had he 
and the marquis been alone, but the presence of Lady Florimel 
put it out of the question. Looking round, he sought the eye of 
his master. 

Had Lord Lossie been wise, he would at once have yielded, 
and sat down to endure to the end. But he jumped on the 
form next him, and appealed to the common sense of the 
assembly. 

“ Don’t you see the man is mad ? ” he said, pointing to the 
preacher. “ He is foaming at the mouth. For God’s sake look 
after your women : he will have them all in hysterics in another 
five minutes. I wonder any man of sense would countenance 
such things ! ” 

As to hysterics , the fisher folk had never heard of them ; and 
though the words of the preacher were not those of soberness, 
they yet believed them the words of truth, and himself a far 
saner man than the marquis. " 

“ Gien a body comes to oor meetin’,” cried one of them, a 
fine specimen of the argle-bargling Scotchman — a creature known 
and detested over the habitable globe — “ he maun just du as we 
du, an’ sit it oot It’s for yer sowl’s guid.” 

The preacher, checked in full career, was standing with open 
mouth, ready to burst forth in a fresh flood of oratory so soon as 
the open channels of hearing ears should be again granted him ; 
but all were now intent on the duel between the marquis and 
Jamie Ladle. 

“If, the next time you came, you found the entrance barri- 
caded,” said the marquis, “ what would you say to that ? ” 

“ Ow, we wad jist tak doon the sticks/’ answered Ladle. 

“ You would call it persecution , wouldn’t you ? ” 

“ Ay ; it wad be that” 

“ And what do you call it now, when you prevent a man from 
going his own way, after he has had enough of your foolery ? ” 

“ Ow, we ca ’t dissiplene ! ” answered the fellow. 

The marquis got down, annoyed, but laughing at his own dis- 
comfiture. 

“ i’ve stopped the screaming, anyhow,” he said. 

Ere the preacher, the tap of whose eloquence presently began 
to yield again, but at first ran very slow, had gathered way enough 
to carry his audience with him, a woman rushed up to the mouth 
of the cave, the borders of her cap flapping, and her grey hair 
flying like an old Maenad’s. Brandishing in her hand a spurtle 
with which she had been making the porridge for supper, she 
cried in a voice that reached every ear ; 


3°6 


MALCOLM. 


“ What’s this I hear o' ’t ! Come oot o' that, Lizzy, ye 
limmer! Ir ye gauin’ frae ill to waur, i’ the deevil’s name ?” 

It was Meg Partan. She sent the congregation right and left 
from her, as a ship before the wind sends a wave from each side 
of her bows. Men and women gave place to her, and she went 
surging into the midst of the assembly. 

“ Whaur’s that lass o’ mine ? ” she cried, looking about her in 
aggravated wrath at failing to pounce right upon her. 

“ She’s no verra weel, Mrs Findlay,” cried Mrs Catanach, in a 
loud whisper, laden with an insinuating tone of intercession. 
“ She’ll be better in a meenute. The minister’s jist ower 
pooerfu’ the nicht.” 

Mrs Findlay made a long reach, caught Lizzy by the arm, and 
dragged her forth, looking scared and white, with a red spot upon 
one cheek. No one dared to bar Meg’s exit with her prize ; 
and the marquis, with Lady Florimel and Malcolm, took advan- 
tage of the opening she made, and following in her wake soon 
reached the open air. 

Mrs Findlay was one of the few of the fisher women who 
did not approve of conventicles, being a great stickler for 
every authority in the country except that of husbands, in which 
she declared she did not believe : a report had reached her that 
Lizzy was one of the lawless that evening, and in hot haste she 
had left the porridge on the fire to drag her home. 

“ This is the second predicament you have got us into, 
MacPhail,” said his lordship, as they walked along the Boar’s 
Tail — the name by which some designated the dune, taking the 
name of the rock at the end of it to be the Boar’s Craig, and the 
last word to mean, as it often does, not Crag, but Neck , like the 
German kragen ,- and perhaps the English scrag. 

“ I’m sorry for’t, my lord,” said Malcolm ; “ but I’m sure yer 
lordship had the worth o’ ’t in fun.” 

“ I can’t deny that,” returned the marquis. 

“ And / can’t get that horrid shriek out of my ears,” said 
Lady Florimel. 

“Which of them?” said her father. “There was no end to 
the shrieking. It nearly drove me wild.” 

“ I mean the poor girl’s who sat beside us, papa. Such a 
pretty nice-looking creature to ! And that horrid woman close 
behind us all the time ! I hope you won’t go again papa. 
They’ll convert you if you do, and never ask your leave. You 
wouldn’t like that, / know.” 

“ What do you say to shutting up the place altogether?” 

“ Do } papa. It’s shocking. Vuigar and horrid 1 ” 


THE BAILLIES ' BARN AGAIN. 


307 

" I wad think twise, my lord, afore I wad sair {serve) them as 
ill as they saired me.” 

“ Did I ask your advice ? ” said the marquis sternly. 

“ It’s nane the waur ’at it ’s gien oonsoucht,” said Malcolm. 
“ It’s the richt thing ony gait.” 

“ You presume on this foolish report about you, I suppose, 
MacPhail,” said his lordship ; “ but that won’t do.” 

“ God forgie ye, my lord, for I hae ill duin’ ’t ! ” ( find it difficult ) 
said Malcolm. 

He left them and walked down to the foamy lip of the tide, 
which was just waking up from its faint recession. A cold 
glimmer, which seemed to come from nothing but its wetness, was 
all the sea had to say for itself. 

But the marquis smiled, and turned his face towards the wind 
which was blowing from the south. 

In a few moments Malcolm came back, but to follow behind 
them, and say nothing more that night. 

The marquis did not interfere with the fishermen. Having 
heard of their rudeness, Mr Cairns called again, and pressed him 
to end the whole thing ; but he said they would only be after 
something worse, and refused. 

The turn things had taken that night determined their after 
course. Cryings out and faintings grew common, and fits began 
to appear. A few laid claim to visions, — bearing, it must be 
remarked, a strong resemblance to the similitudes, metaphors, and 
more extended poetic figures, employed by. the young preacher, 
becoming at length a little more original and a good deal more 
grotesque. They took to dancing at last, not by any means the 
least healthful mode of working off their excitement. It was, 
however, hardly more than a dull beating of time to the 
monotonous chanting of a few religious phrases, rendered pain- 
fully common-place by senseless repetition. 

I would not be supposed to deny the genuineness of the emo- 
tion, or even of the religion, in many who thus gave show to 
their feelings. But neither those who were good before nor those 
who were excited now were much the better for this and like 
modes of playing off the mental electricity generated by the 
revolving cylinder of intercourse. Naturally, such men as Joseph 
Mair now grew shy of the assemblies they had helped to origin- 
ate, and withdrew — at least into the background ; the reins 
©lipped from the hands of the first leaders, and such wind-bags 
as Ladle got up to drive the chariot of the gospel — with the 
results that could not fail to follow. At the same time it must be 
granted that the improvement of their habits, in so far as strong 


308 


MALCOLM. 


drink was concerned, continued : it became almost a test of faith 
with them, whether or not a man was a total abstainer. Hence 
their moral manners, so to say, improved greatly ; there were no 
more public-house orgies, no fighting in the streets, very little of 
what they called breaking of the Sabbath, and altogether there was 
a marked improvement in the look of things along a good many 
miles of that northern shore. 

Strange as it may seem, however, morality in the deeper sense, 
remained very much at the same low ebb as before. It is much 
easier to persuade men that God cares for certain observances, 
than that he cares for simple honesty and truth and gentleness 
and loving-kindness. The man who would shudder at the idea 
of a rough word of the des^iption commonly called swearing, 
will not even have a twinge of conscience after a whole morning 
of ill-tempered sullenness, capricious scolding, villainously unfair 
animadversion, or surly cross-grained treatment generally of wife 
and children ! Such a man will omit neither family worship nor 
a sneer at his neighbour. He will neither milk his cow on the 
first day of the week without a Sabbath mask on his face, nor 
remove it while he waters the milk for his customers. Yet he 
may not be an absolute hypocrite. What can be done for him, 
however, hell itself may have to- determine. 

Notwithstanding their spiritual experiences, it was, for instance, 
no easier to get them to pay their debts than heretofore. Of 
course there were, and had always been, thoroughly honest men 
and women amongst them ; but there were others who took 
prominent part in their observances, who seemed to have no 
remotest suspicion that religion had anything to do with money 
or money’s worth — not to know that God cared whether a child 
of his met his obligations or not. Such fulfilled the injunction 
to owe nothing by acknowledging nothing. One man, when 
pressed, gave as a reason for his refusal, that Christ had paid 
all his debts. Possibly this contemptible state of feeling had 
been fostered by an old superstition that it was unlucky to pay 
up everything, whence they had always been in the habit of 
leaving at least a few shillings of their shop-bills to be carried for- 
ward to the settlement after the next fishing season. But when 
a widow whose husband had left property, would acknowledge 
no obligation to discharge his debts, it came to be rather more 
than a whim. Evidently the religion of many of them was as yet 
of a poor sort — precisely like that of the negroes, whose devotion 
so far outstrips their morality. 

If there had but been some one of themselves to teach that 
the true outlet and sedative ol overstrained feeling is right action 1 


MOUNT PIS GAN. 


309 

that the performance of an unpleasant duty, say the paying of their 
debts, was a far more effectual as well as more specially religious 
mode of working off their excitement than dancing ! that feeling 
is but the servant of character until it becomes its child ! or rather, 
that feeling is but a mere vapour until condensed into character ! 
that the only process through which it can be thus consolidated 
is well-doing — the putting forth of the right thing according to 
the conscience universal and individual ! and that thus, and thus 
only, can the veil be withdrawn from between the man and his 
God, and the man be saved in beholding the face of his Father ! 

“ But have patience — give them time,” said Mr Graham, who 
had watched the whole thing from the beginning. “ If their 
religion is religion, it will work till it purifies ; if it is not, it will 
show itself for what it is, by plunging them into open vice. The 
mere excitement and its extravagance — the mode in which their 
gladness breaks out — means nothing either way. The man is the 
willing, performing being, not the feeling shouting singing being : 
in the latter there may be no individuality — nothing more than re- 
ceptivity of the movement of the mass. But when a man gets up 
and goes out and discharges an obligation, he is an individual ; 
to him God has spoken, and he has opened his ears to hear : God 
and that man are henceforth in communion.” 

These doings, however, gave — how should they fail to give ? — a 
strong handle to the grasp of those who cared for nothing in 
religion but its respectability — who went to church Sunday after 
Sunday, “ for the sake of example” as they said — the most arro- 
gant of Pharisaical reasons ! Many a screeching, dancing fisher- 
lass in the Seaton was far nearer the kingdom of heaven than the 
most respectable of such respectable people ! I would unspeak- 
ably rather dance with the wildest of fanatics rejoicing over a 
change in their own spirits, than sit in the seat of the dull of 
heart, to whom the old story is an outworn tale. 


CHAPTER XLI X. 

MOUNT PISGAH. 

The intercourse between Florimel and Malcolm grew gradually 
more familiar, until at length it was often hardly to be distinguished 
from such as takes place between equals, and Florimel was by 
degrees forgetting the present condition in the possible future of 


3io 


MALCOLM. 


the young man. But Malcolm, on the other hand, as often as 
the thought of that possible future arose in her presence, flung it 
from him in horror, lest the wild dream of winning her should 
make him for a moment desire its realization. 

The claim that hung over him haunted his very life, turning 
the currents of his thought into channels of speculation unknown 
before. Imagine a young fisherman meditating — as he wandered 
with bent head through the wilder woods on the steep banks of 
the burn, or the little green levels which it overflowed in winter 
— of all possible subjects what analogy there might be betwixt the 
body and the soul in respect of derivation — whether the soul was 
traduced as well as the body ? — as his material form came from the 
forms of his father and mother, did his soul come from their 
souls ? or did the Maker, as at the first he breathed his breath into 
the form of Adam, still, at some crisis unknown in its creation, 
breathe into each form the breath of individual being ? If the 
latter theory were the true, then, be his earthly origin what it might, 
he had but to shuffle off this mortal coil to walk forth a clean 
thing, as a prince might cast off the rags of an enforced disguise, 
and set out for the land of his birth. If the former were the true, 
then the well-spring of his being was polluted, nor might he by 
any death fling aside his degradation, or show himself other than 
defiled in the eyes of the old dwellers in “ those high countries,” 
where all things seem as they are, and are as they seem. 

One day when, these questions fighting in his heart, he had for 
the hundredth time arrived thus far, all at once it seemed as if a 
soundless voice in the depth of his soul replied — 

“ Even then — should the well-spring of thy life be polluted with 
vilest horrors such as, in Persian legends, the lips of the lost are 
doomed to drink with loathings inconceivable — the well is but the. 
utterance of the water, not the source of its existence ; the rain is 
ts father, and comes from the sweet heavens. Thy soul, how- 
ever it became known to itself, is from the pure heart of God, 
whose thought of thee is older than thy being — is its first and eldest 
cause. Thy essence cannot be defiled, for in him it is eternal.” 

Even with the thought, the horizon of his life began to clear ; 
a light came out on the far edge of its ocean — a dull and sombre 
yellow, it is true, and the clouds hung yet heavy over sea and 
land, while miles of vapour hid the sky ; but he could now believe 
there might be a blue beyond, in which the sun lorded it with 
majesty. 

He had been rambling on the waste hill in which the grounds 
of Lossie House, as it were, dissipated. It had a far outlook, but 
he had beheld neither sky or ocean. The Soutars of Cromarty 


MOUNT PISGAH. 


3 ” 


had all the time sat on their stools large in his view ; the hills of 
Sutherland had invited his gaze, rising faint and clear over the 
darkened water at their base, less solid than the sky in which they 
were set, and less a fact than the clouds that crossed their breasts; 
the land of Caithness had lain lowly and afar, as if, weary of 
great things, it had crept away in tired humility to the rigours of 
the north ; and east and west his own rugged shore had gone 
lengthening out, fringed with the white burst of the dark sea ; 
but none of all these things had he noted. 

Lady Florimel suddenly encountered him on his way home, 
and was startled by his look. 

“Where have you been, Malcolm?” she exclaimed. 

“ I hardly ken, my leddy : somewhaur aboot the feet o’ Mount 
Pisgah, I ’m thinkin’, if no freely upo’ the heid o’ ’t” 

“ That’s not the name of the hill up there ! ” 

“ Ow na ; yon’s the Binn.” 

“ What have you been about ? Looking at things in general, 
I suppose.” 

“ Na ; they’ve been luikin’ at me, I daursay ; but I didna heed 
them, an’ they didna fash me.” 

“ You look so strangely bright ! ” she said, “ as if you had seen 
something both marvellous and beautiful ! ” 

The words revealed a quality of insight not hitherto manifested 
by Florimel. In truth, Malcolm’s whole being was irradiated by 
the flash of inward peace that had visited him — a statement in- 
telligible and therefore credible enough to the mind accustomed 
to look over the battlements of the walls that clasp the fair 
windows of the senses. But Florimel’s insight had reached its 
limit, and her judgment, vainly endeavouring to penetrate farther, 
fell floundering in the mud. 

“I know 1” she went on: “ — You’ve been to see your lady 
mother !” 

Malcolm’s face turned white as if blasted with leprosy. The 
same scourge that had maddened the poor laird fell hissing on his 
soul, and its knotted sting was the same word mother. He turned 
and walked slowly away, fighting a tyrannous impulse to thrust his 
fingers in his ears and run and shriek. 

“Where are your manners?” cried the girl alter him, but he 
never stayed his slow foot or turned his bowed head, and Florimel 
wondered. 

For the moment, his new-found peace had vanished. Even if 
the old nobility of heaven might regard him without a shadow of 
condescension — that self-righteous form of contempt — what could 
he do with a mother whom he could neither honour or love? Love ! 


313 MALCOLM. 

If he could but cease to hate her ! There was no question yet of 
loving. 

But might she not repent ? Ah, then, indeed ! And might he 
not help her to repent ?— He would not avoid her. How was it 
that she had never yet sought him ? 

As he brooded thus, on his way to Duncan’s cottage, and, 
heedless of the sound of coming wheels, was crossing the road 
which went along the bottom of the glen, he was nearly run over 
by a carriage coming round the corner of a high bank at a fast trot, 
Catching one glimpse of the face of its occupant, as it passed 
within a yard of his own, he turned and fled back through the 
woods, with again a horrible impulse to howl to the winds the cry 
of the mad laird : “ I dinna ken whaur I cam frae ! ” When he 
came to himself, he found his hands pressed hard on his ears, and 
for a moment felt a sickening certainty that he too was a son of 
the lady of Gersefell. 

When he returned at length to the House, Mrs Courthope 
informed him that Mrs Stewart had called, and seen both the 
marquis and Lady FlorimeL 

Meantime he had grown again a little anxious about the laird, 
but as Phemy plainly avoided him, had concluded that he had 
found another concealment, and that the child preferred not being 
questioned concerning it. 

With the library of Lossie House at his disposal, and almost 
nothing to do, it might now have been a grand time for Malcolm’s 
studies ; but alas ! he too often found it all but impossible to keep 
his thoughts on the track of a thought through a single sentence 
of any length. 

The autumn now hung over the verge of its grave. Hoar frost, 
thick on the fields, made its mornings look as if they had turned 
gray with fear. But when the sun arose, grayness and fear 
vanished : the back-thrown smile of the departing glory was 
enough to turn old age into a memory of youth. Summer was 
indeed gone, and winter was nigh with its storms and its fogs and 
its rotting rains and its drifting snows, but the sun was yet in the 
heavens, and, changed as was his manner towards her, would yet 
have many a half smile for the poor old earth — enough to keep 
her alive until he returned, bringing her youth with him. To the 
man who believes that the winter is but for the sake of the sum- 
mer, exists only in virtue of the summer at its heart, no winter, 
outside or in, can be unendurable. But Malcolm sorely missed 
the ministrations of compulsion : he lacked labour — the most 
helpful and most healing of all God’s holy things, of which we so 
often lose the heavenly benefit by labouring inordinately that we 


MOUNT PISGAH. 


313 


may rise above the earthly need of it. How many sighs are 
wasted over the toil of the sickly — a toil which perhaps lifts off 
half the weight of their sickness, elevates their inner life, and 
makes the outer pass with tenfold rapidity. Of those who 
honestly pity such, many would themselves be far less pitiable 
were they compelled to share in the toil they behold with com- 
passion. They are unaware of the healing virtue which the thing 
they would not pity at all were it a matter of choice, gains from 
the compulsion of necessity. 

All over the house big fires were glowing and blazing. 
Nothing pleased the marquis worse than the least appearance of 
stinting the consumption of coal. In the library two huge grate- 
fuls were burning from dawn to midnight — well for the books 
anyhow, if their owner seldom showed his face amongst them. 
There were days during which, except the servant whose duty it 
was to attend to the fires, not a creature entered the room but 
Malcolm. To him it was as the cave of Aladdin to the 
worshipper of Mammon, and yet now he would often sit down 
indifferent to its hoarded splendours, and gather no jewels. 

But one morning, as he sat there alone, in an oriel looking 
sea-wards, there lay on a table before him a thin folio, containing 
the chief works of Sir Thomas Brown — amongst the rest his well- 
known Religio Medici, from which he had just read the following 
passage : — 

“ When I take a full view and circle of myself, without this 
reasonable moderatour, and equall piece of justice, Death, I doe 
conceive my self the most miserablest person extant ; were there 
not another life that I hoped for, all the vanities of this world 
should not intreat a moment’s breath from me ; could the Devil 
work my belief to imagine I could never die, I would not outlive 
that very thought : I have so abject a conceit of this common 
way of existence, this retaining to the Sun and elements, I can- 
not think this is to be a man, or to live according to the dignity 
of humanity. In expectation of a better, I can with patience 
embrace this life, yet in my best meditations do often desire 
death ; I honour any man that contemnes it, nor can I highly 
love any that is afraid of it : this makes me naturally love a 
Soldier, and honour those tatter’d and contemptible Regiments 
that will die at the command of a Sergeant.” 

These words so fell in with the prevailing mood of his mind 
that having gathered them, they grew upon him, and as he pon 
dered them, he sat gazing out on the bright blowing autumn day. 
The sky was dimmed with a clear pallor, across which small 
white clouds were driving ; the yellow leaves that yet clave to 


3H 


MALCOLM. 


the twigs were few, and the wind swept through the brnncnes 
with a hiss. The far-off sea was alive with multitudinous white 
— the rush of the jubilant over-sea y across the blue plain. All 
without was merry, healthy, radiant, strong ; in his mind brooded 
a single haunting thought that already had almost filled his 
horizon, threatening by exclusion to become madness ! Why 
should he not leave the place, and the horrors of his history with 
it? Then the hideous hydra might unfold itself as it pleased; 
he would find at least a better fortune than his birth had endowed 
him withaL 

Lady Florimel entered in search of something to read : to her 
surprise, for she had heard of no arrival, in one of the windows 
sat a Highland gentleman, looking out on the landscape. She 
was on the point of retiring again, when a slight movement 
revealed Malcolm. 

The explanation was, that the marquis, their sea-faring over, 
had at length persuaded Malcolm to don the highland attire : it 
was an old custom of the house of Lossie that its lord’s hench- 
man should be thus distinguished, and the marquis himself wore 
the kilt when on his western estates in the summer, also as often 
as he went to court, — would indeed have worn it always but that 
he was no longer hardy enough. He would not have succeeded 
with Malcolm, however, but for the youth’s love to Duncan, the 
fervent heat of which vaporized the dark heavy stone of obliga- 
tion into the purple vapour of.gratitude, and enhanced the desire 
of pleasing him until it became almost a passion. Obligation is 
a ponderous roll of canvas which Love spreads aloft into a tent 
wherein he delights to dwell. 

This was his first appearance in the garments of Duncan’s 
race. 

It was no little trial to him to assume them in the changed 
aspect of his circumstances ; for alas ! he wore them in right of 
service only, not of birth, and the tartan of his lord’s family was 
all he could claim. 

He had not heard Lady Florimel enter. She went softly up 
behind him, and laid her hand on his shoulder. He started to 
his feet. 

A penny for your thoughts,” she said, retreating a step or two. 

“ I wad gie twa to be rid o’ them,” he returned, shaking his 
bushy head as if to scare the invisible ravens hovering about it. 

“ How fine you are ! ” Florimel went on, regarding him with 
an approbation too open to be altogether gratifying. “ — The 
dress suits you thoroughly. I didn’t know you at first. I 
thought it must be some friend of papa’s. Now I remember he 


MOUNT PISGAH. 


315 

said once you must wear the proper dress for a henchman. How 
do you like it ? ” 

“ It’s a’ ane to me,” said Malcolm. “ I dinna care what I 
weir. — Gien only I had a richt till ’t ! ” he added with a sigh. 

“ It is too bad of you, Malcolm ! ” rejoined Florimel in a tone 
of rebuke. “ The moment fortune offers you favour, you fall out 
with her — won’t give her a single smile. You don’t deserve your 
good luck.” 

Malcolm was silent. 

“ There’s something on your mind,” Florimel went on, partly 
from willingness to serve Mrs Stewart, partly enticed by the 
romance of being Malcolm’s comforter, or perhaps confessor. 

“ Ay is there, my leddy.” 

“ What is it ? Tell me. You can trust me ? ” 

“ I could trust ye, but I canna tell ye. I daurna — I maunna.’* 

“ I see you will not trust me,” said Florimel, with a half pre- 
tended, half real offence. 

“ I wad lay doon my life — what there is o’ ’t — for ye, my 
leddy; but the verra natur o’ my trouble winna be tauld. I 
maun beir’t my lane.” 

It flashed across Lady Florimel’s brain, that the cause of his 
misery, the thing he dared not confess, was love of herself. 
Now, Malcolm, standing before her in his present dress, and 
interpreted by the knowledge she believed she had of his history, 
was a very different person indeed from the former Malcolm in 
the guise of fisherman or sailor, and she felt as well as saw the 
difference : if she was the cause of his misery, why should she 
not comfort him a little ? why should she not be kind to him ? 
Of course anything more was out of the question ; but a little 
confession and consolation would hurt neither of them. Besides, 
Mrs Stewart had begged her influence, and this would open a 
new channel for its exercise. Indeed, if he was unhappy through 
her, she ought to do what she might for him. A gentle word or 
two w r ould cost her nothing, and might help to heal a broken 
heart ! She was hardly aware, however, how little she wanted it 
healed — all at once. 

For the potency of a thought it is perhaps even better that it 
should not be logically displayed to the intellect ; anyhow the 
germ of all this, undeveloped into the definite forms I have 
given, sufficed to the determining of Florimel’s behaviour. I do 
not mean that she had more than the natural tendency of woman- 
kind to enjoy the emotions of which she was the object ; but 
besides the one in the fable, there are many women with a ten- 
dency to mousing ; and the idea of deriving pleasure from the 


3i6 


MALCOLM. 


sufferings of a handsome youth was not quite so repulsive to 
her as it ought to have been. At the same time, as there cannot 
be many cats capable of understanding the agonies of the mice 
within reach of their waving whiskers, probably many cat-women 
are not quite so cruel as they seem. 

“ Can’t you trust me, Malcolm ? ” she said, looking in his eyes 
very sweetly, and bending a little towards him ; “ — Ca?i’t you 
trust me ? ” 

At the words and the look it seemed as if his frame melted to 
ether. He dropped on his knees, and, his heart half stifled in the 
confluence of the tides of love and misery, sighed out between the 
pulses in his throat : 

“ There’s naething I could na tell ye ’at ever I thoucht or did 
i’ my life, my leddy ; but it’s ither fowk, my leddy ! It’s like to 
burn a hole i’ my hert, an’ yet I daurna open my mou’.” 

There was a half angelic, half dog-like entreaty in his up-look- 
ing hazel eyes that seemed to draw hers down into his : she 
must put a stop to that. 

“ Get up, Malcolm,” she said kindly, “ what would my father 
or Mrs Courthope think ? ” 

“ I dinna ken, an’ I maist dinna care ; atween ae thing an’ anither, 
I’m near han’ distrackit,” answered Malcolm, rising slowly, but not 
taking his eyes from her face. “ An’ there’s my daddy ! ” he 
went on, “ — maist won ower to the enemy — an’ I daurna tell 
even him what for I canna bide it ! — Ye haena been sayin’ ony- 
thing till him — hiv ye, my leddy ? ” 

“ I don’t quite understand you,” returned Florimel, rather 
guiltily, for she had spoken on the subject to Duncan. “ Say- 
ing anything to your grandfather ? About what ? ” 

“ Aboot — aboot — her, ye ken, my leddy.” 

“ What her ? ” asked Florimel. 

“ Her ’at The leddy o’ Gersefell.” 

“ And why ? What of her ? Why, Malcolm ! what can 

have possessed you? You seem actually to dislike her ! ” 

“ I canna bide her,” said Malcolm, with the calm earnestness 
of one who is merely stating an incontrovertible fact, and for a 
moment his eyes, at once troubled and solemn, kept looking 
wistfully in hers, as if searching for a comfort too good to be 
found, then slowly sank and sought the floor at her feet 

“ And why?” 

" I canna tell ye.” 

She supposed it an unreasoned antipathy. 

“ But that is very wrong,” she said, almost as if rebuking a 
child. “ You ought to be ashamed of yourself. What ! — dislike 
your own mother ? ” 


MOUNT PISGAll ; 


317 


“ Dinna say the word, my leddy,” cried Malcolm in a tone of 
agony, “ or ye’ll gar me skirl an’ rin like the mad laird. He’s no 
a hair madder nor I wad be wi’ sic a mither.” 

He would have passed her to leave the room. 

But Lady Florimel could not bear defeat. In any contest she 
must win or be shamed in her own eyes, and was she to gain 
absolutely nothing in such a passage with a fisher lad ? Was the 
billow of her persuasion to fall back from such a rock, self-beaten 
into poorest foam ? She would, she must subdue him ! Perhaps 
she did not know how much the sides of her intent were pricked 
by the nettling discovery that she was not the cause of his un- 
happiness. 

“ You ’re not going to leave me so ! ” she exclaimed, in a tone 
of injury. 

“ I ’ll gang or bide as ye wull, my leddy,” answered Malcolm 

resignedly. 

“Bide then,” she returned. “ — I haven’t half done with 
you yet.” 

“Ye mauna jist tear my hert oot,” he rejoined — with a sad half 
smile, and another of his dog-like looks. 

“ That’s what you would do to your mother ! ” said Florimel 
severely. 

“ Say nae ill o’ my mither ! ” cried Malcolm, suddenly changing 
almost to fierceness. 

“ Why, Malcolm ! ” said Florimel, bewildered, “ what ill was I 
saying of her ? ” 

“It’s naething less than an in suit to my mither to ca’ yon 
wuman by her name,” he replied with set teeth. 

It was to him an offence against the idea of motherhood — 
against the mother he had so often imagined luminous against 
the dull blank of memory, to call such a woman his mother. 

“She’s a very ladylike, handsome woman — handsome enough 
to be your mother even, Mr Malcolm Stewart” 

Florimel could not have dared the words but for the distance 
between them ; but, then, neither would she have said them while 
the distance was greater ! They were lost on Malcolm though, 
for, never in his life having started the question whether he was 
handsome or not, he merely supposed her making game ol him, 
and drew himself together in silence, with the air of one bracing 
himself to hear and endure the worst. 

“ Even if she should not be your mother,” his tormentor 
resumed, “ to show such a dislike to any woman is nothing less 
than cruelty.” 

“She maun pruv’ ’t,” murmured Malcolm — not the less em- 
phatically that the words were but just audible. 


MALCOLM. 


318 

“ Of course she will not do that ; she has abundance of prooC 
She gave me a whole hour of proof.” 

“ Lang’s no Strang,” returned Malcolm : “ there’s comfort ? 
that ! Gang on my leddy.” 

“ Poor woman ! it was hard enough to lose her son ; but to 
find him again such as you seem likely to turn out, / should 
think ten times worse.” 

“ Nae doobt ! nae doobt ! — But there’s ae thing waur.” 

u What is that?” 

“ To come upon a mither ’at ” 

He stopped abruptly ; his eyes went wandering about the room, 
and the muscles of his face worked convulsively. 

Florimel saw that she had been driving against a stone wall. 
She paused a moment, and then resumed. 

“ Anyhow, if she is your mother,” she said, “ nothing you can 
do will alter it.” 

“ She maun pruv’ ’t,” was all Malcolm’s dogged reply. 

“Just so ; and if she can’t,” said Florimel, “ you’ll be no worse 
than you were before — and no better,” she added with a sigh. 

Malcolm lifted his questioning to her searching eyes. 

“ Don’t you see,” she went on, very softly, and lowering he^ 
look, from the half-conscious shame of half-unconscious false- 
ness, “ I can’t be all my life here at Lossie ? We shall have to 
say good-bye to each other — never to meet again most likely. 
But if you should turn out to be of good family, you know, — ” 

Florimel saw neither the paling of his brown cheek nor the 
great surge of red that followed, but, glancing up to spy the 
effect of her argument, did see the lightning that broke from 
the darkened hazel of his eyes, and again cast down her own. 

“ — then there might be some chance,” she went on, “ of our 
meeting somewhere — in London, or perhaps in Edinburgh, and 
I could ask you to my house — after I was married you know.” 

Heaven and earth seemed to close with a snap around his 
brain. The next moment, they had receded an immeasurable 
distance, and in limitless wastes of exhausted being he stood 
alone. What time had passed when he came to himself, he had 
not an idea ; it might have been hours for anything his conscious- 
ness was able to tell him. But, although he recalled nothing of 
what she had been urging, he grew aware that Lady Florimel’s 
voice, which was now in his ears, had been sounding in them all 
the time. He was standing before her like a marble statue with 
a dumb thrill in its helpless heart of stone. He must end this ? 
Parting was bad enough, but an endless parting was unendurable ! 
To know that measureless impassable leagues lay between them, 


MOUNT PISGAH. 


3i9 


and yet to be for ever in the shroud of a cold leave-taking !— -To 
look in her eyes, and know that she was not there ! A parting 
that never broke the bodily presence — that was the form of agony 
which the infinite moment assumed. As to the possibility she 
would bribe him with — it was not even the promise of a glimpse 
of Abraham’s bosom from the heart of hell. With such an effort 
as breaks the bonds of a nightmare dream, he turned from 
her, and, heedless of her recall, went slowly, steadily, out of 
the house. 

While she was talking, his eyes had been resting with glassy 
gaze upon the far off waters : the moment he stepped into the 
open air, and felt the wind on his face, he knew that their turmoil 
was the travailing of sympathy, and that the ocean had been 
drawing him all the time. He walked straight to his little boat, 
lying dead on the sands of the harbour, launched it alive on the 
smooth water within the piers, rove his halliard, stepped his mast, 
hoisted a few inches of sail, pulled beyond the sheltering sea- 
walls, and was tossing amidst the torn waters whose jagged edges 
were twisted in the loose-flying threads of the northern gale. A 
moment more, and he was sitting on the windward gunwale of 
of his spoon of a boat, with the tiller in one hand and the sheet 
in the other, as she danced like a cork over the broken tops 
of the waves. For help in his sore need, instinct had led him 
to danger. 

Half way to the point of Scaumose, he came round on the 
other tack, and stood for the Death Head. 

Glancing from the wallowing floor beneath him, and the one 
wing that bore him skimming over its million deaths, away 
to the House of Lossie, where it stood steady in its woods, he 
distinguished the very window whence, hardly an hour ago, from 
the centre of the calm companionship of books, he had gazed out 
upon the wind-swept waste as upon a dream. 

“ How strange,” he thought, “ to find myself now in the midst 
of what I then but saw ! This reeling ocean was but a picture 
to me then — a picture framed in the window ; it is now alive and I 
toss like a toy on its wild commotion ! Then I but saw from afar 
the flashing of the white out of the blue water, and the blue sky 
overhead, which no winds can rend into pallid pains; now I 
have to keep eye and hand together in one consent to shun 
death ; I meet wind and wave on their own terms, and humour 
the one into an evasion of the other. The wind that then revealed 
itself only in white blots and streaks now lashes my hair into my 
eyes, and only the lilt of my bows is betwixt me and the throaf 
that swallows the whales and the krakens. 


320 


MALCOLM. 


“ Will it be so with death ? It looks strange and far off now, 
but it draws nigh noiselessly, and one day I meet it face to lace 
in the grapple : shall I rejoice in that wrestle as I rejoice in 
this? Will not my heart grow sick within me? Shall I not 
be faint and fearful ? And yet I could almost wish it were at 
hand! 

“ I wonder how death and this wan water here look to God ! 
To him is it like a dream — a picture? Water cannot wet him ; 
death cannot touch him. Yet Jesus could have let the water wet 
him ; and he granted power to death when he bowed his head 
and gave up the ghost. God knows how things look to us both 
far off and near ; he also can see them so when he pleases. What 
they look to him is what they are : we cannot see them so, but 
we see them as he meant us to see them, therefore truly, accord- 
ing to the measure of the created. Made in the image of God, 
we see things in the image of his sight.” 

Thoughts like these, only in yet cruder forms, swept through 
the mind of Malcolm as he tossed on that autumn sea. But 
what we call crude forms are often in reality germinal forms ; 
and one or other of these flowered at once into the practical con- 
clusion that God must know all his trouble, and would work for 
him a worthy peace. Ere he turned again towards the harbour, 
he had reascended the cloud-haunted Pisgah whence the words of 
Lady Florimel had hurled him. 


CHAPTER L. 

LIZZY FINDLAY. 

Leaving his boat again on the dry sand that sloped steep into 
the harbour, Malcolm took his way homeward along the shore. 
Presently he spied, at some little distance in front of him, a 
woman sitting on the sand, with her head bowed upon her knees. 
She had no shawl, though the wind was cold and strong, blow- 
ing her hair about wildly. Her attitude and whole appearance 
were the very picture of misery. He drew near and recognized 
her. 

“ What on earth’s gane wrang wi’ ye, Lizzy?” he asked. 

“ Ow naething,” she murmured, without lifting her head. The 
brief reply was broken by a sob. 

“ That camia be,” persisted Malcolm, trouble of whose own 


LIZZY FIND LA K 


321 

had never yet rendered him indifferent to that of another. “ Is 
’t onything ’at a body cun stan’ by ye in?” 

Another sob was the only answer. 

“ I’m in a peck o’ troubles mysel’,” said Malcolm. " I wad 
fain help a body gien I cud.” 

“ Naebody can help me,” returned the girl, with an agonized 
burst, as if the words were driven from her by a convulsion of 
her inner world, and therewith she gave way, weeping and sobbing 
aloud. — “ I doobt I’ll hae to droon mysel’,” she added with a 
wail, as he stood in compassionate silence, until the gust should 
blow over ; and as she said it she lifted a face tear-stained, and 
all white, save where five fingers had branded their shapes in 
red. Her eyes scarcely encountered his ; again she buried her 
face in her hands, and rocked herself to and fro, moaning in fresh 
agony. 

“ Yer mither’s been sair upo’ ye, I doobt ! ” he said. “ But it’ll 
sune blaw ower. She cuils as fest ’s she heats.” 

As he spoke he set himself down on the sand beside her. 
But Lizzy started to her feet, crying, 

“ Dinna come near me, Ma’colm. I’m no fit for honest man 
to come nigh me. Stan’ awa’ ; I hae the plague.” 

She laughed, but it was a pitiful laugh, and she looked wildly 
about, as if for some place to run to. 

“ I wad na be sorry to tak it mysel’, Lizzy. At ony rate I’m 
ower auld a freen’ to be driven frae ye that gait,” said Malcolm, who 
could not bear the thought of leaving her on the border of the 
solitary sea, with the waves barking at her all the cold winterly 
gloamin’. Who could tell what she might do after the dark came 
down ? He rose and would have taken her hand to draw it 
from her face ; but she turned her back quickly, saying in 
a hard forced voice : 

‘■A man canna help a wuman — ’cep it be till her grave.” 
Then turning suddenly, she laid her hands on his shoulders, and 
cried : “ For the love o’ God, Ma’colm, lea’ me this moment ! 
Gien I cud tell ony man what ailed me, I wad tell you ; but I 
canna, I canna ! Rin laddie ; rin’ an’ lea’ me.” 

It was impossible to resist her anguished entreaty and agonized 
look. Sore at heart and puzzled in brain, Malcolm yielding 
turned from her, and with eyes on the ground, thoughtfully pui- 
sued his slow walk towards the Seaton. 

At the corner of the first house in the village stood three 
women, whom he saluted as he passed. The tone of their reply 
struck him a little, but, not having observed how they watched 
him as he appioached, he presently forgot it. The moment hi* 


322 


MALCOLM . 


back was turned to them, they turned to each other and inter* 

changed looks. 

“ Fine feathers mak fine birds,” said one of them. 

“Ay, but he luiks booed doon,” said another. 

“ An’ weel he may ! What ’ll his leddy-mither say to sic a 
ploy ? She ’ll no sawvour bein’ made a granny o’ efter sic a 
fashion ’s yon,” said the third. 

“ ’Deed, lass, there’s feow oucht to think less o’ ’t,” returned 
the first. 

Although they took little pains to lower their voices, Malcolm 
was far too much preoccupied to hear what they said. Perceiv- 
ing plainly enough that the girl’s trouble was much greater than a 
passing quarrel with her mother would account for, and knowing 
that any intercession on his part would only rouse to loftier 
flames the coal-pits of maternal wrath, he resolved at length to 
take counsel with Blue Peter and his wife, and therefore, passing 
the sea-gate, continued his walk along the shore, and up the red 
path to the village of Scaurnose. 

He found them sitting at their afternoon meal of tea and oat- 
cake* A peat fire smouldered hot upon the hearth ; a large 
kettle hung from a chain over it — fountain of plenty, whence the 
great china teapot, splendid in red flowers and green leaves, had 
just been filled ; the mantelpiece was crowded with the gayest 
of crockery, including the never-absent half-shaved poodles, and 
the rarer Gothic castle, from the topmost story of whose keep 
bloomed a few late autumn flowers. Phemy too was at the 
table : she rose as if to leave the room, but apparently changed 
her mind, for she sat down again instantly. 

“ Man ye’re unco braw the day — i’ yer kilt an’ tartan hose ! ” 
remarked Mair as he welcomed him. 

“ I pat them on to please ray daddy an’ the markis,” said Mal- 
colm, with a half shamed-faced laugh. 

“Are na ye some cauld aboot the k-nees?” asked the 
guidwife. 

“ Nae that cauld 1 I ken ’at they’re there ; but I’ll sune be 
used till ’t.” 

“ Weel, sit ye doon an’ tak a cup o’ tay wi’ ’s.” 

“I haena muckle time to spare,” said Malcolm; “but I’ll tak 
a cup o’ tay wi’ ye. Gien ’t warna for wee bit luggies ( small 
ears) I wad fain spier yer advice aboot ane ’at wants a wuman- 
freen’, I’m thinkin’.” 

Phemy, who had been regarding him with compressed lips and 
suspended operations, deposited her bread and butter on the 
table, and slipped from her chair. 


LIZZY FIND LA Y. 


323 


“Whaur are ye gauin’, Phemy ?” said her mother. 

“Takin’ awa’ my lugs,” returned Phemy. 

“ Ye cratur ! ” exclaimed Malcolm ; “ ye’re ower wise. Wha 
Wad hae thoucht ye sae gleg at the uptak ! ” 

“ Whan fowk winna lippen to me — ’’ said Phemy and ceased. 

“What can ye expec,” returned Malcolm, while father and 
mother listened with amused faces — “ whan ye winna lippen to 
fowk ? — Phemy, whaur’s the mad laird ? ” 

A light flush rose to her cheeks, but whether from embarrass- 
ment or anger could not be told from her reply. 

“ I ken nane o’ that name,” she said. 

“ Whaur’s the laird o’ Kirkbyres, than ? ” 

“ Whar ye s’ never lay han’ upo’ ’im ! ” returned the child, her 
cheeks now rosy-red, and her eyes flashing. 

“ Me lay han’ upo’ ’im 1 ” cried Malcolm, surprised at her 
behaviour. 

“ Gien ’t hadna been for you, naebody wad hae fun’ oot the 
w’y intil the cave,” she rejoined, her gray eyes, blue with the fire 
of anger, looking straight into his. 

“ Phemy ! Phemy 1 ” said her mother. “ For shame ! ” 

“ There’s nae shame intill ’t,” protested the child indignantly. 

“ But there is shame intill ’t,” said Malcolm quietly, “ for ye 
wrang an honest man.” 

“ Weel, ye canna deny,” persisted Phemy, in mood to brave 
the evil one himself, “ ’at ye was ower at Kirkbyres on ane o’ the 
markis’s mears, an’ heild a lang confab wi’ the laird’s mither 1 ” 

“ I gaed upo’ my maister’s eeran’,” answered Malcolm. 

“ Ow, ay ! I daursay ! — But wha kens — wi’ sic a mither 1 ” 

She burst out crying, and ran into the street. 

Malcolm understood it now. 

“ She’s like a’ the lave (rest) I ” he said sadly, turning to her 
mother. 

“ I’m jist afirontit wi’ the bairn 1 ” she replied, with manifest 
annoyance in her flushed face. 

“She’s true to him," said Malcolm, “gien she binna fair to me. 
Sayna a word to the lassie. She ’ll ken me better or lang. An’ 
noo for my story.” 

Mrs Mair said nothing while he told how he had come upon 
Lizzy, the state she was in, and what had passed between them ; 
but he had scarcely finished, when she rose, leaving a cup of tea 
an tasted, and took her bonnet and shawl from a nail in the back 
of the door. Her husband rose also. 

“ I ’ll jist gang as far ’s the Boar’s Craig wi’ ye mysel’, Annie,” 
he said. 


3n 


MALCOLM. 


“ I’m thinkm* ye’ll fin* the puir lassie whaur I left her,” re- 
marked Malcolm. “ I doobt she daured na gang hame.” 

That night it was all over the town, that Lizzy Findlay was in 
a woman’s worst trouble, and that Malcolm was the cause of it. 


CHAPTER LI. 

THE LAIRD’S BURROW. 

Annie Mair had a brother, a carpenter, who, following her to 
Scaurnose, had there rented a small building next door to her 
cottage, and made of it a workshop. It had a rude loft, one end 
of which was loosely floored, while the remaining part showed the 
couples through the bare joists, except where some planks of oak 
and mahogany, with an old door, a boat’s rudder, and other things 
that might come in handy, were laid across them in store. There 
also, during the winter, hung the cumulus- clouds of Blue Peter’s 
herring-nets ; for his cottage, having a garret above, did not 
afford the customary place for them in the roof. 

When the cave proved to be no longer a secret from the laird’s 
enemies, Phemy, knowing that her father’s garret could never 
afford him a sufficing sense of security, turned the matter over in 
her active little brain until pondering produced plans, and she 
betook herself to her uncle, with whom she was a great favourite. 
Him she found no difficulty in persuading to grant the hunted 
man a refuge in the loft. In a few days he had put up a partition 
between the part which was floored and that which was open, and 
so made for him a little room, accessible from the shop by a 
ladder and a trap-door. He had just taken down an old window- 
frame to glaze for it, when the laird coming in and seeing what 
he was about, scrambled up the ladder, and, a moment after, all 
but tumbled down again in his eagerness to put a stop to it : the 
window was in the gable, looking to the south, and he would not 
have it glazed. 

In blessed compensation for much of the misery of his lot, the 
laird was gifted with an inborn delicate delight in nature and hei 
ministrations such as few poets even possess ; and this faculty 
was supplemented with a physical hardiness which, in association 
with his weakness and liability to certain appalling attacks, was 
truly astonishing. Though a rough hand might cause him ex- 
quisite pain, he could sleep soundly on the hardest floor ; a hot 
room would induce a flt, but he would lie under an open window 


THE LAIRD'S BURROW. 


325 


in the sharpest night without injury ; a rude word would make 
him droop like a flower in frost, but he might go all day wet to 
the skin without taking cold. To all kinds of what are called 
hardships, he had readily become inured, without which it would 
have been impossible for his love of nature to receive such a full 
development. For hence he grew capable of communion with 
her in all her moods, undisabled either by the deadening effects 
of present, or the aversion consequent on past suffering. All the 
range of earth’s shows, from the grandeurs of sunrise or thunder- 
storm down to the soft unfolding of a daisy or the babbling birth 
of a spring, was to him an open book. It is true, the delight of 
these things was constantly mingled with, not unfrequently broken, 
indeed, by the troublous question of his origin ; but it was only 
on occasions of jarring contact with his fellows, that it was accom- 
panied by such agonies as my story has represented. Sometimes 
he would sit on a rock, murmuring the words over and over, and 
dabbling his bare feet, small and delicately formed, in the trans- 
lucent green of a tide-abandoned pool. But oftener in a soft 
dusky wind, he might have been heard uttering them gently and 
coaxingly, as if he would wile from the evening zephyr the secret 
of his birth — which surely mother Nature must know. The con- 
finement of such a man would have been in the highest degree 
cruel, and must speedily have ended in death. Even Malcolm 
did not know how absolute was the laird’s need, not simply of air 
and freedom, but of all things accompanying the enjoyment of 
them. 

There was nothing then of insanity in his preference of a 
windowless bedroom ; — it was that airs and odours, birds and 
sunlight — the sound of flapping wing, of breaking wave, and 
quivering throat, might be free to enter. Cool clean air he must 
breathe, or die ; with that, the partial confinement to which he 
was subjected was not unendurable ; besides, the welcome rain 
would then visit him sometimes, alighting from the slant wing of 
the flying blast ; while the sun would pour in his rays full and 
mighty and generous, unsifted by the presumptuous glass — green 
and gray and crowded with distorting lines ; and the sharp flap 
of pigeon’s wing would be mimic thunder to the flash which 
leapt from its whiteness as it shot by. 

He not only loved but understood all the creatures, divining 
by an operation in which neither the sympathy nor the watchful- 
ness was the less perfect that both were but half conscious, the 
emotions and desires informing their inarticulate language. 
Many of them seemed to know him in return — either recognizing- 
his person, and from experience deducing safety, or reading his 


MALCOLM. 


326 

countenance sufficiently to perceive that his interest prognosti* 
cated no injury. The maternal bird would keep her seat in her 
nursery, and give back his gaze ; the rabbit peeping from his 
burrow would not even draw in his head at his approach ; the 
rooks about Scaurnose never took to their wings until he was 
within a yard or two of them : the laird, in his half-acted utterance, 
indicated that they took him for a scarecrow and therefore were 
not afraid of him. Even Mrs Catanach’s cur had never offered him 
a bite in return for a caress. He could make a bird’s nest, of any 
sort common in the neighbourhood, so as deceive the most 
cunning of the nest-harrying youths of the parish.* 

Hardly was he an hour in his new abode ere the sparrows and 
robins began to visit him. Even strange birds of passage flying 
in at his hospitable window, would espy him unscared, and some- 
times partake of the food he had always at hand to offer them. 
He relied, indeed, for the pleasures of social intercourse with the 
animal world, on stray visits alone ; he had no pets — dog nor cat 
nor bird ; for his wandering and danger-haunted life did not allow 
such companionship. 

He insisted on occupying his new quarters at once. In vain 
Phemy and her uncle showed reason against it. He did not 
want a bed ; he much preferred a heap of spates , that is, wood- 
shavings. Indeed, he would not have a bed ; and whatever he 
did want he would get for himself. Having by word and gesture 
made this much plain, he suddenly darted up the ladder, threw 
down the trap-door, and, lo ! like a hermit-crab, he had taken 
possession. Wisely they left him alone. 

For a full fortnight he allowed neither to enter the little 
chamber. As often as they called him, he answered cheerfully, 
but never showed himself except when Phemy brought him food, 
which, at his urgent request, was only once in the twenty-four hours 
— after night-fall, the last thing before she went to bed ; then he 
would slide down the ladder, take what she had brought him, and 
hurry up again. Phemy was perplexed, and at last a good deal 
distressed, for he had always been glad of her company before. 

At length, one day, hearing her voice in the shop, and having 
peeped through a hole in the floor to see that no stranger was 
present, he invited her to go up, and lifted the trap-door. 

“ Come, come,” he said hurriedly, when her head appeared and 
came no farther. 

He stood holding the trap-door, eager to close it again as soon 
as she should step clear of it, and surprise was retarding hef 
ascent. 

* See article Martin F6reol, in St. FauPs Magazine voL iv. generally. 


THE LAIRD'S BURROW. 


327 


Before hearing his mind, the carpenter had already made for 
him, by way of bedstead, a simple frame of wood, crossed 
with laths in the form of lattice-work : this the laird had taken 
and set up on its side, opposite the window, about two feet from 
it, so that, with abundant passage for air, it served as a screen. 
Fixing it firmly to the floor, he had placed on the top of it a large 
pot of the favourite cottage-plant there called Hwjiility , and 
trained its long pendent runners over it. On the floor between 
it and the window, he had ranged a row of flower pots — one of 
them with an ivy-plant, which also he had begun to train against 
the trellis ; and already the humility and the ivy had begun to 
intermingle. 

At one side of the room, where the sloping roof met the floor, 
was his bed of fresh pine-shavings, amongst which, their resinous 
half-aromatic odour apparently not sweet enough to content him, 
he had scattered a quantity of dried rose-leaves. A thick tartan 
plaid, for sole covering, lay upon the heap. 

“ I wad hae likit hey better," he said, pointing to this lair 
rather than couch, “ but it’s some ill to get, an’ the spales they ’re 
at han’, an’ they smell unco clean.” 

At the opposite side of the room lay a corresponding heap, 
differing not a little, however, in appearance and suggestion. 
As far as visible form and material could make it one, it was a 
grave— rather a short one, but abundantly long for the laird. It 
was in reality a heap of mould, about a foot and a half high, 
covered with the most delicate grass, and bespangled with 
daisies. 

“ Laird ! ” said Phemy, half reproachfully, as she stood gazing 
at the marvel, “ ye hae been oot at nicht ! ’’ 

“Aye — a’ nicht whiles, whan naebody was aboot ’cep* the 
win’” — he pronounced the word with a long-drawn imitative 
sough — “ an’ the cloods an’ the splash o’ the watter.’’ 

Pining under the closer imprisonment in his garret, which the 
discovery of his subterranean refuge had brought upon him, the 
laird would often have made his escape at night but for the fear 
of disturbing the Mairs; and now that there was no one to dis- 
turb, the temptation to spend his nights in the open air was the 
more irresistible that he had conceived the notion of enticing 
nature herself into his very chamber. Abroad then he had gone, 
as soon as the first midnight closed around his new dwelling, and 
in the fields had with careful discrimination begun to collect the 
mould for his mound, a handful here and a handful there. This 
took him several nights, and when it was finished, he was yet 
more choice in his selection of turf, taking it from the natural 


328 


MALCOLM. 


grass growing along the roads and on the earthen dykes, or 
walls, the outer sides of which feed the portionless cows of that 
country. Searching for miles in the moonlight, he had, with eye 
and hand, chosen out patches of this grass, the shortest and 
thickest he could find, and with a pocket knife, often in pieces 
of only a few inches, removed the best of it and carried it home, 
to be fitted on the heap, and with every ministration and bland- 
ishment enticed to flourish. He pressed it down with soft firm 
hands, and beshowered it with water first warmed a little in his 
mouth ; when the air was soft, he guided the wind to blow upon 
it ; and as the sun could not reach it where it lay, he gathered a 
marvellous heap of all the bright sherds he could find — of 
crockery and glass and mirror, so arranging them in the window, 
that each threw its tiny reflex upon the turf. With this last con- 
trivance, Phemy was specially delighted; and the laird, happy 
as a child in beholding her delight, threw himself in an ecstasy 
on the mound and clasped it in his arms. I can hardly doubt 
that he regarded it as representing his own grave, to which in his 
happier moods he certainly looked forward as a place of final and 
impregnable refuge. 

As he lay thus, foreshadowing his burial, or rather his resur- 
rection, a young canary which had flown from one of the cottages, 
flitted in with a golden shiver and flash, and alighted on his 
head. He took it gently in his hand and committed it to Phemy 
to carry home, with many injunctions against disclosing how it 
had been captured. 

His lonely days were spent in sleep, in tending his plants, or 
in contriving defences ; but in all weathers he wandered out at 
midnight, and roamed or rested among fields or rocks till the first 
signs of the breaking day, when he hurried like a wild creature 
to his den. 

Before long he had contrived an ingenious trap, or man-spider- 
web, for the catching of any human insect that might seek en- 
trance at his window: the moment the invading body should 
reach a certain point, a number of lines would drop about him, 
in making his way through which he would straightway be caught 
by the barbs of countless fish-hooks — the whole strong enough at 
least to detain him until its inventor should have opened the trap* 
door and fled. 


CREAM OR SCUM t 


329 


CHAPTER LIL 

CREAM OR SCUM ? 

Of the new evil report abroad concerning him, nothing had as 
yet reached Malcolm. He read, and pondered, and wrestled 
with difficulties of every kind ; saw only a little of Lady Florimel, 
who, he thought, avoided him ; saw less of the marquis ; and, as 
the evenings grew longer, spent still larger portions of them with 
Duncan — now and then reading to him, but oftener listening to 
his music or taking a lesson in the pipers art. He went seldom 
into the Seaton, for the faces there were changed towards him. 
Attributing this to the reports concerning his parentage, and not 
seeing why he should receive such treatment because of them, 
hateful though they might well be to himself, he began to feel 
some bitterness towards his early world, and would now and then 
repeat to himself a misanthropical thing he had read, fancying he 
too had come to that conclusion. But there was not much 
danger of such a mood growing habitual with one who knew 
Duncan MacPhail, Blue Peter, and the schoolmaster — not to 
mention Miss Horn. To know one person who is positively to 
be trusted, will do more for a man’s moral nature — yes, for his 
spiritual nature — than all the sermons he has ever heard or ever 
can hear. 

One evening, Malcolm thought he would pay Joseph a visit, 
but when he reached Scaurnose, he found it nearly deserted : he 
had forgotten that this was one of the nights of meeting in the 
Baillies’ Barn. Phemy indeed had not gone with her father and 
mother, but she was spending the evening with the laird. Lifting 
the latch, and seeing no one in the house, he was on the point 
of withdrawing when he caught sight of an eye peeping through 
an inch-opening of the door of the bed-closet, which the same 
moment was hurriedly closed. He called, but received no reply, 
and left the cottage wondering. He had not heard that Mrs 
Mair had given Lizzy Findlay shelter for a season. . And now 
a neighbour had observed and put her own construction on the 
visit, her report of which strengthened the general conviction of 
his unworthiness. 

Descending from the promontory, and wandering slowly along 
the shore, he met the Scaurnose part of the congregation return- 
ing home. The few salutations dropped him as he passed were 


33 ° 


MALCOLM , ; 


distant, and bore an expression of disapproval. Mrs Mair only, 
who was walking with a friend, gave him a kind nod. Blue 
Peter, who followed at a little distance, turned and walked back 
with him. 

“ I’m exerceesed i’ my min’,” he said, as soon as they were 
clear of the stragglers, “ aboot the turn things hae taen, doon-by 
at the Bam.” 

“They tell me there’s some gey queer customers taen to 
haudin’ furth,” returned Malcolm. 

“ It’s a fac’,” answered Peter. The fowk ’ll hardly hear a word 
noo frae ony o’ the aulder an’ soberer Christi-ans. They haena 
the gift o’ the Speerit, they say. But in place o’ steerin’ them up 
to tak hold upo’ their Maker, thir new lichts set them up to luik 
doon upo’ ither fowk, propheseein’ an’ denuncin’, as gien the 
Lord had committit jeedgment into their han’s.” 

“What is ’t they tak haud o’ to misca’ them for?’’ asked 
Malcolm. 

“ It’s no sae muckle,” answered Peter, “ for onything they du, 
as for what they believe or dinna believe. There’s an ’uman frae 
Clamrock was o’ their pairty the nicht. She stude up an’ spak 
weel, an’ weel oot, but no to muckle profit, as ’t seemed to me ; 
only I’m maybe no a fair jeedge, for I cudna be rid o’ the notion 
’at she was lattin’ at mysel’ a’ the time. I dinna ken what for. 
An’ I cudna help wonnerin’ gien she kent what fowk used to say 
aboot hersel’ whan she was a lass ; for gien the sma’ half o’ that 
was true, a body micht think the new grace gien her wad hae 
driven her to hide her head, i’ place o’ exaltin’ her horn on high. 
But maybe it was a’ lees — she kens best hersel’.” 

“There canna be muckle worship gaein’ on wi’ ye by this 
time, than, I’m thinkin’,” said Malcolm. 

“I dinna like to say ’t,” returned Joseph; “but there’s a 
speerit o’ speeritooal pride abroad amang ’s, it seems to me, ’at’s 
no fawvourable to devotion. They hae taen ’t intill their heids, for 
ae thing — an that’s what Dilse’s Bess lays on at — ’at ’cause they’re 
fisher-fowk, they hae a speecial mission to convert the warl’.” 

“ What foon’ they that upo’ ? ” asked Malcolm. 

“ Ow, what the Saviour said to Peter an’ the lave o’ them ’at 
was fishers — to come to him, an’ he would mak them fishers o’ 
men.” 

“ Ay, I see ! — What for dinna ye bide at hame, you an’ the 
lave o’ the douce anes?” 

“ There ye come upo’ the thing ’at ’s troublin’ me. — Are we 
’at begude it to brak it up ? — Or are we to stan’ aside an’ lat it a’ 
gang to dirt an’’ green bree ? — Or are we to bide wi’ them. 


CREAM OR SCUM f 


33 * 


an warsle aboot holy words till we tyne a' stamach for holy 

things ? ” 

“ Cud ye brak it up gien ye tried ? ” asked Malcolm. 

•“ 1 doobt no. That’s ane o’ the considerations ’at hings some 
sair upo’ me : see what we hae dune ! ” 

“ What for dinna ye gang ower to Maister Graham, an’ speir 
what he thinks ? ” 

“ What for sud I gang till him ? What’s he but a fine moaral 
man ? I never h’ard ’at he had ony discernment o’ the min’ o’ 
the speerit.” 

“ That’s what Dilse’s Bess frae Clamrock wad say aboot yersel’, 
Peter.” 

“ An’ I doobt she wadna be far wrang.” 

“ Ony gait, she kens nae mair aboot you nor ye ken aboot the 
maister. Ca’ ye a man wha cares for naething in h’aven or in 
earth but the wull o’ ’s Creator — ca’ ye sic a man no speeritual ? 
Jist gang ye till ’im, an’ maybe he’ll lat in a glent upo’ ye ’at ’ll 
astonish ye.” 

“ He’s taen unco little enterest in onything ’at was gaein* on.” 

“ Arena ye some wissin’ ye hadna taen muckle mair yersel, 
Peter ? ” 

“ ’Deed am I ! But gien he be giftit like that ye say, what for 
didna he try to haud ’s richt ? ” 

“ Maybe he thoucht ye wad mak yer mistaks better wantin’ 
him.” 

“ Weel, ye dinna ca’ that freenly ! ” 

“ What for no ? I hae h’ard him say fowk canna come richt 
*cep’ by haein’ room to gang wrang. But jist ye gang till him 
noo. Maybe he’ll open mair een i’ yer heids nor ye kent ye had.” 

“ Weel, maybe we micht du waur. I s’ mention the thing to 
Bow-o’-meal an’ J eames Gentle, an’ see what they say. — There’s 
nae guid to be gotten o’ gaein’ to the minister, ye see : there’s 
naething in him, as the saw says, but what the spune pits 
intill him.” 

With this somewhat unfavourable remark, Elue Peter turned 
homewards. Malcolm went slowly back to his room, his tallow 
candle, and his volume of Gibbon. 

He read far into the night, and his acndle was burning low in 
the socket. Suddenly he sat straight up in his chair, listening : 
he thought he heard a sound in the next room — it was impossible 
even to imagine of what — it was such a mere abstraction of 
sound. He listened with every nerve, but heard nothing more ; 
crept to the door of the wizard’s chamber, and listened again ; 
listened until he could no longer tell whether he heard or not, 


MALCOLM. 


33 * 

and felt like a deaf man imagining sounds ; then crept back to 
his own room and went to bed — all but satisfied that, if it was 
anything, it must have been some shaking window or door he 
had heard. 

But he could not get rid of the notion that he had smelt 
sulphur. 


CHAPTER L 1 1 1. 

THE SCHOOLMASTER’S COTTAGE. 

The following night, three of the Scaurnose fishermen — Blue 
Peter, Bow-o’-meal, and Jeames Gentle — called at the school- 
master’s cottage in the Alton, and were soon deep in earnest con- 
versation with him around his peat-fire, in the room which served 
him for study, dining-room, and bed-chamber. All the summer 
a honey-suckle outside watched his back window for him ; now 
it was guarded within by a few flowerless plants. It was a deep 
little window in a thick wall, with an air of mystery, as if thence 
the privileged might look into some region of strange and precious 
things. The front window was comparatively commonplace, with 
a white muslin curtain across the lower half. In the middle of 
the sanded floor stood a table of white deal, much stained with 
ink. The green-painted doors of the box-bed opposite the hearth, 
stood open, revealing a spotless white counterpane. On the wall 
beside the front window, hung by red cords three shelves of 
books ; and near the back window stood a dark, old-fashioned 
bureau, with pendant brass handles as bright as new, supporting 
a bookcase with glass doors, crowded with well-worn bindings. 
A few deal chairs completed the furniture. 

“ It’s a sair vex, sir, to think o’ what we a’ jeedged to be the 
wark o’ the speerit takin’ sic a turn ! I’m feart it ’ll lie heavy 
at oor door,” said Blue Peter, after a sketch of the state of affairs. 

“ I don’t think they can have sunk so low as the early 
Corinthian Church yet,” said Mr Graham, “ and St. Paul never 
seems to have blamed himself for preaching the gospel to the 
Corinthians.” 

“Weel, maybe!” rejoined Mair. “But, meantime, the 
practical p’int is — Are we to tyauve ( struggle ) to set things richt 
again, or are we to lea’ them to their ain devices ? ” 

“ What power have you to set things right ? ” 


THE SCHOOLMASTERS COTTAGE. 333 

“ Nanc, sir. The Baillies* Bam ’s as free to them as to 

oorsel’s.” 

“ What influence have you, then ? ” 

“ Unco little,” said Bow-o’-meal, taking the word “They’re 
afore the win’. An’ it ’s plain eneuch ’at to stan’ up an’ oppose 
them wad be but to breed strife an’ debate.” 

“ An’ that micht put mony a waukent conscience soon’ asleep 
again — maybe no to be waukent ony mair,” said Blue Peter. 

“ Then you don’t think you can either communicate or receive 
benefit by continuing to take a part in those meetings? ” 

“ I dinna think it,” answered all three. 

“ Then the natural question is — ‘ Why should you go ? ’ ” 

“ We’re feart for the guilt o’ what the minister ca’s shism,” said 
Blue Peter. 

“ That might have occurred to you before you forsook the 
parish-church,” said the schoolmaster, with a smile. 

“ But there was nae speeritooal noorishment to be gotten i* 
that houff (haunt)” said Jeames Gentle. 

“ Plow did you come to know the want of it ? ” 

“ Ow, that cam frae the speerit himsel’ — what else ? ” replied 
Gentle. 

“ By what means ? ” 

“ By the readin’ o’ the word an’ by prayer,” answered Gentle. 

“ By his ain v’ice i’ the hert,” said Bow-o’-meal. 

“ Then a public assembly is not necessary for the communica- 
tion of the gifts of the spirit ? ” 

They were silent. 

“ Isn’t it possible that the eagerness after such assemblies may 
have something to do with a want of confidence in what the 
Lord says of his kingdom — that it spreads like the hidden leaven 
— grows like the buried seed ? My own conviction is, that if a 
man would but bend his energies to live , if he would but try to 
be a true, that is, a godlike man, in all his dealings with his 
fellows, a genuine neighbour and not a selfish unit, he would 
open such channels for the flow of the spirit as no amount of 
even honest and so-called successful preaching could.” 

“ Wha but ane w r as ever fit to lead sic a life ’s that ? ” 

“ All might be trying after it. In proportion as our candle 
bums it will give light. No talking about light will supply the 
lack of its presence either to the talker or the listeners.” 

“ There ’s a heap made o’ the preachin’ o’ the word i’ the buik 
itsel’,” said Peter with emphasis. 

“ Undoubtedly. But just look at our Lord : he never stopped 
living amongst his people — hasn’t stopped yet j but he often 


334 


MALCOLM. 


refused to preach, and personally has given it up altogether 
now.” 

“Ay, but ye see he kent what he was duin\” 

“ And so will every man in proportion as he partakes of his 
spirit.” 

“ But dinna ye believe there is sic a thing as gettin’ a call to 
the preachin’ ? ” 

“ I do ; but even then a man’s work is of worth only as it 
supplements his life. A network of spiritual fibres connects the 
two, makes one of them.” 

“ But surely, sir, them ’at ’s o’ the same min’ oucht to meet 
an’ stir ane anither up ? ‘ They that feart the Lord spak aften 

thegither,’ ye ken.” 

“ What should prevent them ? Why should not such as delight 
in each other s society, meet, and talk, and pray together, — address 
each the others if they like ? There is plenty of opportunity for 
that, without forsaking the church or calling public meetings. 
To continue your quotation — ‘ The Lord hearkened and heard 
observe, the Lord is not here said to hearken to sermons or 
prayers, but to the talk of his people. This would have saved 
you from false relations with men that oppose themselves, caring 
nothing for the truth — perhaps eager to save their souls, nothing 
more at the very best.” 

“ Sir ! sir ! what wad ye hae ? Daur ye say it’s no a body’s 
first duty to save his ain sowl alive ? ” exclaimed Bow-o’-meal. 

“ I daur’t — but there ’s little daur intill ’t ! ” said Mr Graham, 
breaking into Scotch. 

Bow-o’-meal rose from his chair in Indignation, Blue Peter 
made a grasp at his bonnet, and J eames Gentle gave a loud sigh 
of commiseration. 

“ I allow it to be a very essential piece of prudence,” added 
the schoolmaster, resuming his quieter English — “ but the first 
duty ! — no. The Catechism might have taught you better than 
that ! To mind his chief end must surely be man’s first duty; 
and the Catechism says — 1 Man’s chief end is to glorify God.’ ” 

“ And to enjoy him for ever,” supplemented Peter. 

“ That ’s a safe consequence. There’s no fear of the second 
if he does the first. Anyhow he cannot enjoy him for ever this 
moment, and he can glorify him at once.” 

“ Ay, but hoo ? ” said Bow-o’-meal, ready to swoop upon the 
Raster's reply. 

“ Just as Jesus Christ did — by doing his will — by obedience.” 

“That’s no faith — it’s works ! Ye’ll never save yer sowl that 
gait, s.r.'’ 


THE SCHOOLMASTERS COTTAGE. 


335 


u No man can ever save his soul. God only can do that 
You can glorify him by giving yourself up heart and soul and body 
and life to his Son. Then you shall be saved. That you must 
leave to him , and do what he tells you. There will be no fear of 
the saving then — though it ’s not an easy matter — even for him , 
as has been sorely proved.” 

" An’ hoo are we to gie oorsel’s up till him ? — for ye see we’ra 
practical kin’ o' fowk, huz fisher-fowk, Maister Graham,” said 
Bow-o’-meal. 

The tone implied that the schoolmaster was not practical 

“ I say again — In doing his will and not your own.” 

“ An’ what may his wull be ? ” 

“ Is he not telling you himself at this moment ? Do you not 
know what his will is ? How should I come between him and 
you ! For anything I know, it may be that you pay your next 
door neighbour a crown you owe him, or make an apology to 
the one on the other side, /do not know : you do.” 

“ Dinna ye think aboot savin’ yer ain sowl noo, Maister 
Graham ? ” said Bow-o’-meal, returning on their track. 

“ No, I don’t. I’ve forgotten all about that. I only desire 
and pray to do the will of my God — which is all in all to me.” 

“ What say ye than aboot the sowls o’ ither fowk ? Wadna ye 
save them, no ? ” 

“ Gladly would I save them — but according to the will of God. 
If I were, even unwittingly, to attempt it in any other way, I should 
be casting stumbling-blocks in their path, and separating myself 
from my God — doing that which is not of faith, and therefore is 
sin. It is only where a man is at one with God that he can do 
the right thing or take the right way. Whatever springs from any 
other source than the spirit that dwelt in Jesus, is of sin, and works 
to thwart the divine will. Who knows what harm may be done 
to a man by hurrying a spiritual process in him ? ” 

“ I doobt, sir, gien yer doctrine was to get a hearin’, there wad 
be unco little dune for the glory o’ God i’ this place 1 ” remarked 
Bow-o’-meal, with sententious reproof. 

“ But what was done would be of the right sort, and surpassingly 
powerful.” 

“ Weel, to come back to the business in han’ — what wad be yer 
advice?” said Bow-o’-meal 

“ That ’s a thing none but a lawyer should give. I have shown 
you what seem to me the principles involved: I can do nq 
more.” 

“ Ye dinna ca’ that neebourly, whan a body comes speirin* ’t 

“ Are you prepared then to take my advice ? ” 


MALCOLM. 


336 


“ Ye wadna hae a body du that aforehan’ ! We micht as weel 
a’ be Papists, an’ believe as we ’re tauld.” 

“ Precisely so. But you can exercise your judgment upon the 
principles whereon my opinion is founded, with far more benefit 
than upon my opinion itself — which I cannot well wish you to 
adopt, seeing I think it far better for a man to go wrong upon his 
own honest judgment, than to go right upon anybody else’s 
judgment, however honest also.’’ 

“ Ye hae a heap o’ queer doctrines, sir.” 

“ And yet you ask advice of me ? ” 

“We haena ta’en muckle, ony gait,” returned Bow-o’-meal 
rudely, and walked from the cottage. 

Jeames Gentle and Blue Peter bade the master a kindly good- 
night, and followed Bow-o’-meal. 

The next Sunday evening Blue Peter was again at the Alton, 
accompained by Gentle and another fisherman, *M>t Bow-o’-meal, 
and had another and longer conversation with the schoolmaster. 
The following Sunday he went yet again ; and from that time, 
every Sunday evening, as soon as he had had his tea, Blue Peter 
took down his broad bonnet, and set out to visit Mr Graham. As 
he went, one and another would join him as he passed, the 
number increasing every time, until at last ten or twelve went 
regularly. 

But Mr Graham did not like such a forsaking of wives and 
children on the Sunday. 

“ Why shouldn’t you bring Mrs Mair with you ?” he said one 
evening, addressing Joseph first. Then turning to the rest — “I 
should be happy to see any of your wives who can come,” he 
added ; “ and some of you have children who would be no trouble. 
If there is any good in gathering this way, why shouldn’t we have 
those with us who are our best help at all other times?” 

“ Deed, sir,” said Joseph, “ we ’re sae used to oor wives ’at we’re 
ower ready to forget hoo ill we cud du wantin’ them.” 

Mrs Mair and two other wives came the next night A few 
hung back from modesty and dread of being catechized ; but ere 
long about half a dozen went when they could. 

I need hardly say that Malcolm, as soon as he learned what 
was going on, made one of the company. And truly, although 
he did not know even yet all the evil that threatened him, he 
stood in heavy need of the support and comfort to be derived 
irom such truths as Mr Graham unfolded. Duncan also, although 
he took little interest in what passed, went sometimes, and was 
welcomed. 

The talk of the master not unfrequently lapsed into monologue^ 


ONE DA V. 


3 37 


and sometimes grew eloquent. Seized occasionally by the might 
of the thoughts which arose in him, — thoughts which would, to 
him, have lost all their splendour as well as worth, had he imagined 
them the offspring of his own faculty, meteors of his own atmo- 
sphere instead of phenomena of the heavenly region manifesting 
themselves on the hollow side of the celestial sphere of human 
vision, — he would break forth in grand poetic speech that roused 
to aspiration Malcolm’s whole being, while in the same instant 
calming him with the summer peace of profoundest faith. 

To no small proportion of his hearers some of such outbursts 
were altogether unintelligible — a matter of no moment ; but there 
were of them who understood enough to misunderstand utterly : 
interpreting his riches by their poverty, they misinterpreted them 
pitifully, and misrepresented them worse. And, alas ! in the little 
company there were three or four men who, for all their upward 
impulses, yet remained capable of treachery, because incapable 
of recognizing the temptation to it for what it was. These by and 
by began to confer together and form an opposition — in this at 
least ungenerous, that they continued to assemble at his house, 
and show little sign of dissension. When, however, they began 
at length to discover that the master did not teach that in- 
terpretation of atonement which they had derived — they little 
knew whence, but delivered another as the doctrine of St. Paul, 
St. Peter, and St. John, they judged themselves bound to take 
measures towards the quenching of a dangerous heresy. For the 
more ignorant a man is, the more capable is he of being absolutely 
certain of many things — with such certainty, that is, as consists in 
the absence of doubt. Mr Graham, in the meantime, full of love, 
and quiet solemn fervour, placed completest confidence in their 
honesty, and spoke his mind freely and faithfully. 


CHAPTER LIV. 

ONE DAY. 

The winter was close at hand — indeed, in that northern region, 
might already have claimed entire possession ; but the trailing 
golden fringe of the skirts of autumn was yet visible behind him, 
as he wandered away down the slope of the world. In the 
gentle sadness of the season, Malcolm could not help looking 
back with envy to the time when labour, adventure, and danger,, 


338 


MALCOLM. 


stormy winds and troubled waters, would have helped him to beat 
the weight of the moral atmosphere which now from morning to 
night oppressed him. Since their last conversation, Lady Flori- 
mel’s behaviour to him was altered. She hardly ever sent for 
him now, and when she did, gave her orders so distantly that at 
length, but for his grandfather’s sake, he could hardly have 
brought himself to remain in the house even until the return of 
his master who was from home, and contemplated proposing to 
him as soon as he came back, that he should leave his service 
and resume his former occupation, at least until the return of 
summer should render it fit to launch the cutter again. 

One day, a little after noon, Malcolm stepped from the house. 
The morning had broken gray and squally, with frequent sharp 
showers, and had grown into a gurly gusty day. Now and then 
the sun sent a dim yellow glint through the troubled atmosphere, 
but it was straightway swallowed up in the volumes of vapour 
seething and tumbling in the upper regions. As he crossed the 
threshold, there came a moaning wind from the w r est, and the 
water-laden branches of the trees all went bending before it, 
shaking their burden of heavy drops on the ground. It was 
dreary, dreary, outside and in. He turned and looked at the 
house. If he might have but one peep of the goddess far with- 
drawn ! What did he want of her ? Nothing but her favour — 
something acknowledged between them — some understanding of 
accepted worship ! Alas ! it was all weakness, and the end 
thereof dismay ! It was but the longing of the opium-eater or 
the drinker for the poison which in delight lays the foundations of 
torture. No ; he knew where to find food — something that was 
neither opium nor strong drink — something that in torture sus- 
tained, and, when its fruition came, would, even in the splendours 
of delight, far surpass their short-lived boon ! He turned towards 
the schoolmaster’s cottage. 

Under the trees, which sighed aloud in the wind, and, like 
earth-clouds, rained upon him as he passed, across the churchyard, 
bare to the gray, hopeless-looking sky, through the iron gate he 
went, and opened the master’s outer door. Ere he reached that 
of his room, he heard his voice inviting him to enter. 

“Come to condole with me, Malcolm?” said Mr Graham 
cheerily. 

“ What for, sir ? ” asked Malcolm. 

“You haven’t heard, then, that I’m going to be sent about roy 
business ? At least, it’s more than likely.” 

Malcolm dropped into a seat, and stared like an idol. Could 
he have heard the words ? In his eyes Mr Graham was the man 


ONE DA K 


339 

of the place — the real person of the parish. He dismissed ! The 
Words breathed of mingled impiety and absurdity. 

The schoolmaster burst out laughing at him. 

“ I’m feart to speyk, sir,” said Malcolm. “ Whatever I say, I’m 
bun’ to mak a fule o’ mysel’ 1 What in plain words div ye mean, 
sir ? ” 

“ Somebody has been accusing me of teaching heresy — in the 
school to my scholars, and in my own house to the fisherfolk : the 
presbytery has taken it up, and here is my summons to appear 
before them and answer to the charge.” 

“ Quid preserve ’s, sir ! And is this the first ye hae h’ard o’t ? ” 

“ The very first” 

“ An’ what are ye gaum* to do ? ” 

“ Appear, of course.” 

“ An’ what ’ll ye say to them ? ” 

“ I shall answer their questions.” 

“ They ’ll condemn ye ! ” 

“ I do not doubt it.” 

“ An’ what neist ? ” 

“ 1 shall have to leave Scotland, I suppose.” 

“ Sir, it ’s awfu* ! ” 

The horror-stricken expression of Malcolm’s face drew a 
second merry laugh from Mr Graham. 

“They can’t burn me,” he said: “you needn’t look like 
that” 

“ But there’s something terrible wrang, sir, whan sic men hae 
pooer ower sic a man.” 

“ They have no pow r er but what’s given them. I shall accept 
their decision as the decree of heaven.” 

“ It's weel to be you, sir — ’at can tak a thing sae quaiet.” 

“You mustn’t suppose I am naturally so philosophical. It 
stands for five and forty years of the teaching of the Son of Man 
in this wonderful school of his, where the clever would be 
destroyed but for the stupid, where the church would tear itself 
to pieces but for the laws of the world, and where the wicked 
themselves are the greatest furtherance of godliness in the good.” 

“ But wha ever cud hae been baze eneuch to du ’t ! ” said Mal- 
colm, too much astounded for his usual eager attention to the 
words that fell from the master. 

“ That I would rather not inquire,” answered Mr Graham. 
'* In the meantime it would be better if the friends would meet 
somewhere else, for this house is mine only in virtue of my office. 
Will you tell them so for me?” 

“Surely, sir. But will ye no mak ane?” 


340 


MALCOLM. 


“ Not till this is settled. I will after, so long as I may b<5 
here.” 

“ Gien onybody had been catecheesin’ the bairns, I wad surely 
hae h’ard o’ t ! ” said Malcolm, after a pause of rumination, 
“ Poochy wad hae tellt me. I saw him thestreen {yester-even ). — 
Wha ’ll ever say again a thing’s no poassible ! ” 

“ Whatever doctrine I may have omitted to press in the school,” 
said Mr Graham; “ I have inculcated nothing at variance with 
the Confession of Faith or the Shorter Catechism.” 

“ Hoo can ye say that, sir?” returned Malcolm, “ whan, in as 
weel’s oot o’ the schuil, ye hae aye insistit ’at God ’s a just God — 
abune a’ thing likin’ to gie fair play ? ” 

“ Well, does the Catechism say anything to the contrary ? ” 

“No in sae mony words, doobtless ; but it says a sicht o’ things 
’at wad mak God oot the maist oonrichteous tyrant ’at ever was.” 

“ I ’m not sure you can show that logically,” said Mr Graham. 
“ I will think it over, howe\ er — not that I mean to take up 
any defence of myself. But now I have letters to write, and 
must ask you to leave me. Come and see me again to-morrow.” 

Malcolm went from him — 

like one that hath been stunned, 

And is of sense forlorn. 

Here was trouble upon trouble ! But what had befallen him 
compared with what had come upon the schoolmaster ! A man 
like him to be so treated ! How gladly he would work for him 
all the rest of his days ! And how welcome his grandfather 
would make him to his cottage 1 Lord Lossie would be the last 
to object. But he knew it was a baseless castle while he built it, 
for Mr Graham would assuredly provide for himself, if it were by 
breaking stones on the road and saying the Lord’s Prayer. It 
all fell to pieces just as he lifted his hand to Miss Horn’s 
knocker. 

She received him with a cordiality such as even she had never 
shown him before. He told her what threatened Mr Graham 
She heard him to the end without remark, beyond the interjec- 
tion of an occasional “ Eh, sirs ! ” then sat for a minute in troubled 
silence. 

“ There’s a heap o’ things an ’uman like me,” she said at length, 
“canna un’erstan’. I didna ken whether some fowk mair nor 
preten’ to un’erstan’ them. But set Sandy Graham doon upo’ ae 
side, an’ the presbytery doon upo’ the ither, an’ I hae wit eneuch 
to ken whilk I wad tak my eternal chance wi’. Some o’ the 
presbytery’s guid eneuch men, but haena ower muckle gumption ; 


ONE DA Y. 


34i 


an* some o’ them has plenty o’ gumption, but haena ower muckle 
grace, ta jeedge by the w’y ’at they glower an’ rair, layin’ doon 
the law as gien the Almichty had been driven to tak coonsel wi’ 
them. But luik at Sandy Graham ! Ye ken whether he has 
gumption or no ; an’ gien he be a stickit minister, he stack by 
the grace o’ moadesty. But, haith, I winna peety him ! for, o’ a’ 
things, to peety a guid man i’ the richt gate is a fule’s folly. 
Troth, I’m a hantle mair concernt about yersel’, Ma’colm !” 

Malcolm heard her without apprehension. His cup seemed full, 
and he never thought that cups sometimes run over. But per- 
haps he was so far the nearer to a truth : while the cup of blessing 
may and often does run over, I doubt if the cup of suffering is 
ever more than filled to the brim. 

“ Onything fresh, mem?” he asked, with the image of Mrs 
Stewart standing ghastly on the slopes of his imagination. 

“ I wadna be fit to tell ye, laddie, gien ’t warna, as ye ken, ’at 
the Almichty ’s been unco mercifu’ to me i’ the maitter o’ feelin’s. 
Yer freen’s i’ the Seaton, an’ ower at Scaurnose, hae feelin’s, an’ 
that ’s hoo nane o’ them a’ has pluckit up hert to tell ye o’ the 
waggin’ o’ slanderous tongues against ye.” 

“ What are they sayin’ noo ?” asked Malcolm with consider- 
able indifference. 

“ Naither mair nor less than that ye ’re the father o’ an oonborn 
wean,” answered Miss Horn. 

“ I dinna freely unnerstan’ )^e,” returned Malcolm, for the 
unexpectedness of the disclosure was scarcely to be mastered at 
once. 

I shall not put on record the plain form of honest speech 
whereby she made him at once comprehend the nature of the 
calumny. He started to his feet, and shouted “ Wha daur 
say that?” so loud that the listening Jean almost fell down the 
stair. 

“ Wha sud say ’t but the lassie hersel’ ?” answered Miss Horn 
simply. “ She maun hae the best richt to say wha ’s wha.” 

“ It wad better become onybody but her,” said Malcolm. 

“ What mean ye there, laddie?” cried Miss Horn, alarmed. 

“ ’At nane cud ken sae weel ’s hersel’ it was a damned lee. 
Wha is she ?” 

“ Wha but Meg Partan’s Lizzy !” 

“ Puir lassie ! is that it ? — Eh, but I’m sorry for her ! She 
never said it was me. An’ whaever said it, surely ye dinna believe 
*t o’ me, mem?” 

“ Me believe ’t ! Malcolm MacPhail, wull ye daur insult a 
maiden wuman ’at ’s stude clear o’ reproch till she’s lang past the 


342 


MALCOLM. 


danger o* *t ? It’s been wi’ unco sma’ diffeeclety, I maun alloo, 
for I haena been led into ony temptation ! ” 

“ Eh, mem !” returned Malcolm, perceiving by the flash of 
her eyes and the sudden halt of her speech that she was really 
indignant — “ I dinna ken what I hae said to anger ye ! ” 

“ Anger me ! quo’ he ? What though I hae nae feelin’s ! Will 
he daur till imaigine 'at he wad be sittin’ there, an’ me haudin J 
him company, gien I believed him cawpable o’ turnin’ oot sic a 
meeserable, contemptible wratch ! The Lord come atween me an* 
my wrath !” 

“ I beg yer pardon, mem. A body canna aye put things thegither 
afore he speyks. I ’m richt sair obleeged till ye for takin’ my 
pairt.” 

“I tak naebody’s pairt but my ain, laddie. Obleeged to me for 
haein’ a wheen common sense — a thing ’at I was born wi’ ! Toots ! 
Dinna haiver.” 

“ Weel, mem, what wad ye hae me du ? I canna sen’ my auld 
daddie roon the toon wi’ his pipes, to procleem ’at I’m no the 
man. I ’m thinkin’ I ’ll hae to lea’ the place.” 

“ Wad ye sen’ yer daddy roun’ wi’ the pipes to say ’at ye was 
the man? Ye micht as weel du the tane as the tither. Mony a 
better man has been waur misca’d, an’ gart fowk forget that ever 
the lee was lee’d. Na, na ; never rin frae a lee. An’ never say, 
naither, ’at ye didna du the thing, ’cept it be laid straucht to yer 
face. Lat a lee lie i’ the dirt. Gien ye pike it up, the dirt ’ll 
stick till ye, though ye fling the lee ower the dyke at the warl’s 
en’. Na, na ! Lat a lee lie, as ye wad the deevil’s tail ’at the 
laird’s Jock took aff wi’ the edge o’ ’s spaud.” 

“ A’ thing ’s agane me the noo !” sighed Malcolm. 

“Auld Jobb ower again!” returned Miss Horn almost sar- 
castically. “ The deil had the warst o’ ’t though, an’ wull hae, i’ 
the lang hinner en’. Meanwhile ye maun face him. There’s 
nae airmour for the back aither i’ the Bible or i’ the Pilgrim’s 
Progress.” 

“ What wad ye hae me du, than, mem?” 

“Du? Wha said ye was to du onything? The best duin 
whiles is to bide still. Lat ye the jaw {wave) gae ower ohn joukit 
( without ducking)'* 

“ Gien I binna to du onything, I maist wiss I hadna kent,” 
said Malcolm, whose honourable nature writhed under the im- 
puted vileness. 

“ It ’s aye better to ken in what licht ye stan’ wi’ ither fowk. 
It hauds ye ohn lippent ower muckle, an’ sae dune things or 
made remarks ’at wad be misread till ye. Ye maun baud an open 


ONE DA K 


343 


ro’d, ’at the trowth whan it comes oot may hove free course. 
The ae thing ’at spites me is, ’at the verra fowk ’at was the first 
to spread yer ill report, ’ill be the first to wuss ye weel whan 
the trowth’s kent — ay, an’ they ’ll persuaud their verra sel’s ’at 
they stuck up for ye like born brithers.” 

“ There maun be some jeedgement upo’ leein’ 1” 

“ The warst wuss I hae agane ony sic back-biter is that he 
may live to be affrontit at himsel’. Efter that he’ll be guid eneuch 
company for me. Gang yer wa’s, laddie ; say yer prayers, an’ 
haud up yer heid. Wha wadna raither be accused o’ a’ the sins 
o’ the comman’ments nor be guilty o’ ane o’ them?” 

Malcolm did hold up his head as he walked away. 

Not a single person was in the street. Ear below, the sea was 
chafing and tossing — grey green broken into white. The horizon 
was formless with mist, hanging like thin wool from the heavens 
down to the face of the waters, against which the wind, which 
had shifted round considerably towards the north, and blew in 
quicker-coming and more menacing gusts, appeared powerless. 
He would have gone to the sands and paced the shore till night- 
fall, but that he would not expose himself thus to unfriendly 
eyes and false judgments. He turned to the right instead, and 
walked along the top of the cliffs eastward. Buffeted by winds 
without and hurrying fancies within, he wandered on until he 
came near Colonsay Castle, at sight of which the desire awoke 
in him to look again on the scene of Lady Florimel’s terror. He 
crossed the head of the little bay and descended into the heart 
of the rock. Even there the wind blew dank and howling through 
all the cavernous hollows. As he approached the last chamber, 
out of the Devil’s Window flew, with clanging wing, an arrow- 
barbed sea-gull, down to the grey-veiled tumult below, and the 
joy of life for a moment seized his soul. But the next, the dis- 
may of tfiat which is forsaken was upon him. It was not that 
the once lordly structure lay abandoned to the birds and the 
gusts, but that she would never think of the place without an 
instant assay at forgetfulness. He turned and re-ascended, feel- 
ing like a ghost that had been wandering through the forlorn 
chambers of an empty skull. 

When he rose on the bare top of the ruin, a heavy shower from 
the sea was beating slant against the worn walls and gaping clefts. 
Myriads of such rains had, with age-long inevitableness, crumbled 
away the strong fortress till its threatful mass had sunk to an 
abject heap. Thus all-devouring Death — nay, nay! it is all- 
sheltering, all-restoring mother Nature, receiving again into her 
mighty matrix the stuff worn out in the fashioning toil of her 


344 


MALCOLM \ 


wasteful, greedy, and slatemly children. In her genial bosom, 
the exhausted gathers life, the effete becomes generant, the dis- 
integrate returns to resting and capable form. The rolling oscil- 
lating globe dips it for an aeon in growing sea, lifts it from the 
sinking waters of its thousand-year bath to the furnace of the 
sun, remodels and remoulds, turns ashes into flowers, and divides 
mephitis into diamonds and breath. The races of men shift and 
hover like shadows over her surface, while, as a woman dries her 
garment before the household flame, she turns it, by portions, 
now to and now from the sun-heart of fire. Oh joy that all the 
hideous lacerations and vile gatherings of refuse which the wor- 
shippers of mammon disfigure the earth withal, scoring the tale 
of their coming dismay on the visage of their mother, shall one 
day lie fathoms deep under the blessed ocean, to be cleansed 
and remade into holy because lovely forms ! May the ghosts of 
the men who mar the earth, turning her sweet rivers into channels 
of filth, and her living air into irrespirable vapours and pestilences, 
haunt the desolations they have made, until they loathe the 
work of their hands, and turn from themselves with a divine 
repudiation. 

It was about half tide, and the sea coming up, with the wind 
straight from the north, when Malcolm, having descended to 
the shore of the little bay, and scrambled out upon the rocks, 
bethought him of a certain cave which he had not visited since 
he was a child, and climbing over the high rocks between, took 
shelter there from the wind. He had forgotten how beautiful it 
was, and stood amazed at the richness of its colour, imagining 
he had come upon a cave of the serpentine marble which is 
found on the coast ; for sides and roof and rugged floor were 
gorgeous with bands and spots and veins of green, and rusty red. 
A nearer inspection, however, showed that these hues were noc 
of the rock itself, but belonged to the garden of the ocean, and 
when he turned to face the sea, lo ! they had all but vanished, 
the cave shone silvery gray, with a faint moony sparkle, and 
out came the lovely carving of the rodent waves. All about, its 
sides were fretted in exquisite curves, and fantastic yet ever- 
graceful knots and twists ; as if a mass of gnarled and contorted 
roots, first washed of every roughness by some ethereal solvent, 
leaving only the soft lines of yet grotesque volutions, had been 
transformed into mingled silver and stone. Like a soldier crab 
that had found a shell to his mind, he gazed through the yawning 
mouth of the cavern at the turmoil of the rising tide, as it rushed 
straight towards him through a low jagged channel in the rocks. 
But straight with the tide came the wind, blowing right into the 


ONE DA Y, 


345 


cave ; and finding it keener than pleasant, he turned and went 
farther in. After a steep ascent some little way, the cavern took 
a sharp turn to one side, where not a breath of wind, not a 
glimmer of light, reached, and there he sat down upon a stone, 
and fell a thinking. 

He must face the lie out, and he must accept any mother God 
had given him : but with such a mother as Mrs Stewart, and 
without Mr Graham, how was he to endure the altered looks of 
his old friends ? Faces indifferent before, had grown suddenly 
dear to him; and opinions he would have thought valueless once, 
had become golden in his eyes. Had he been such as to deserve 
their reproaches, he would doubtless have steeled himself to de- 
spise them ; but his innocence bound him to the very people 
who judged him guilty. And there was that awful certainty 
slowly but steadily drawing nearer ! — that period of vacant 
anguish, in which Lady Florimel must vanish from his sight, and 
the splendour of his life go with her, to return no more ! 

But not even yet did he cherish any fancy of coming nearer to 
her than the idea of absolute service authorized. As often as the 
fancy had, compelled by the lady herself, crossed the horizon of 
his thoughts, a repellent influence from the same source had 
been at hand to sweep it afar into its antenatal chaos. But his 
love rose ever from the earth to which the blow had hurled it, 
purified again, once more all devotion and no desire, careless of 
recognition beyond the acceptance of its offered service, and 
content that the be-all should be the end-all 

The cave seemed the friendliest place he had yet found. 
Earth herself had received him into her dark bosom, where no 
eye could discover him, and no voice reach him but that of the 
ocean, as it tossed and wallowed in the palm of God’s hand. 
He heard its roar on the rocks around him ; and the air was filled 
with a loud noise of broken waters, while every now and then the 
wind rushed with a howl into the cave, as if searching for him in 
its crannies ; the wild raving soothed him, and he felt as if he 
would gladly sit there, in the dark tom with tumultuous noises, 
until his fate had unfolded itself. 

The noises thickened around him as the tide rose ; but so 
gradually that, although at length he could not have heard his 
own voice, he was unaware of the magnitude to which the mighty 
uproar had enlarged itself. Suddenly, something smote the rock 
as with the hammer of Thor, and, as suddenly, the air around 
him grew stifling hot The next moment it was again cold. He 
started to his feet in wonder, and sought the light. As he turned 
the angle, the receding back of a huge green foam-spotted wave, 


346 


MALCOLM . 


still almost touching the roof of the cavern, was sweeping out 
again into the tumult. It had filled the throat of it, and so com- 
pressed the air within by the force of its entrance, as to drive 
out for the moment a large portion of its latent heat. Looking 
then at his watch, Malcolm judged it must be about high tide : 
brooding in the darkness, he had allowed the moments to lapse 
unheeded, and it was now impossible to leave the cavern until 
the tide had fallen. He returned into its penetral, and sitting 
down with the patience of a fisherman, again lost himself in 
reverie. 

The darkness kept him from perceiving how the day went, 
and the rapidly increasing roar of the wind made the diminishing 
sound of the tide’s retreat less noticeable. He thought after- 
wards that perhaps he had fallen asleep ; anyhow, when at length 
he looked out, the waves were gone from the rock, and the dark- 
ness was broken only by the distant gleam of their white defeat 
The wind was blowing a hurricane, and even for his practised 
foot, it was not easy to surmount the high, abrupt spines he must 
cross to regain the shore. It was so dark that he could see 
nothing of the castle, though it was but a few yards from him ; 
and he resolved therefore, the path along the top of the cliffs 
being unsafe, to make his way across the fields, and return by 
the high road. The consequence was, that, what with fences 
and ditches, the violence of the wind, and uncertainty about his 
direction, it was so long before he felt the hard road under his 
feet that with good reason he feared the house would be closed 
for the night ere he reached it. 


CHAPTER LV. 

THE SAME NIGHT. 

When he came within sight of it, however, he perceived, by the 
hurried movement of lights, that instead of being folded in 
silence, the house was in unwonted commotion. As he hastened 
to the south door, the prince of the power of the air himself 
seemed to resist his entrance, so fiercely did the wind, eddying 
round the building, dispute every step he made towards it ; and 
when at length he reached and opened it, a blast, rushing up the 
glen straight from the sea, burst wide the opposite one, and 
roared through the hall like a torrent Lady Florimel, flitting 


THE SAME NIGHT, 


347 


across it at the moment, was almost blown down, and shrieked 
aloud for help. Malcolm was already at the north door, exerting 
all his strength to close it, when she spied him, and, bounding 
to him, with white face and dilated eyes, exclaimed — 

“ Oh Malcolm ! what a time you have been ! ” 

“ What’s wrang, my leddy ? ” cried Malcolm with respondent 
terror. 

“ Don’t you hear it ? ” she answered. " The wind is blowing 
the house down. There’s just been a terrible fall, and every 
moment I hear it going. If my father were only come 1 We 
shall be all blown into the burn.” 

“ Nae fear o’ that, my leddy ! ” returned Malcolm. “ The wa’s 
o’ the auld carcass are ’maist live rock, an’ ’ill stan’ the warst win’ 
’at ever blew — this side o’ the tropics, ony gait. Gien ’t war ance 
to get its nose in, I wadna say but it micht tirr (strip) the rufe, 
but it winna blaw ’s intil the burn, my leddy. I’ll jist gang and 
see what’s the mischeef.” 

He was moving away, but Lady Florimel stopped him. 

“ No, no, Malcolm ! ” she said. “ It’s very silly of me, I dare- 
say ; but I’ve been so frightened. They’re such a set of geese 
— Mrs Courthope, and the butler, and all of them ! Don’t leave 
me, please.” 

“ I maun gang and see what’s amiss, my leddy,” answered 
Malcolm ; “ but ye can come wi’ me gien ye like. What’s fa’en, 
div ye think ? ” 

“ Nobody knows. It fell with a noise like thunder, and shook 
the whole house.” 

“ It’s far ower dark to see onything frae the ootside,” rejoined 
Malcolm, “ — at least afore the rnune’s up. It’s as dark’s pick. But 
I can sune saitisfee mysel’ whether the deil *s i’ the hoose or no.” 

He took a candle from the hall-table, and went up the square 
staircase, followed by Florimel. 

“ What w’y is ’t, my leddy, ’at the hoose is no lockit up, an* 
ilka body i’ their beds ? ” he asked. 

“ My father is coming home to-night. Didn’t you know ? 
But I should have thought a storm like this enough to account 
for people not being in bed S ” 

“ It’s a fearfu’ nicht for him to be sae far frae his ! Whaur’s 
he cornin’ frae ! Ye never speyk to me noo, my leddy, an’ nae- 
body telit me.” 

“ He was to come from Fochabers to-night. Stoat took the 
bay mare to meet him yesterday.” 

“ He wad never start in sic a win’ 1 It’s fit to blaw the 
saiddle afi* o’ the mear’s back.” 


MALCOLM. 


348 

*‘He may have started before it came on to blow like this* 
said Lady Florimel. 

Malcolm liked the suggestion the less because of its pro- 
bability, believing, in that case, he should have arrived long ago. 
But he took care not to increase Florimel’s alarm. 

By this time Malcolm knew the whole of the accessible inside 
of the roof well — better far than any one else about the house. 
From one part to another, over the whole of it, he now led Lady 
Florimel. In the big-shadowed glimmer of his one candle, all 
parts of the garret seemed to him frowning with knitted brows 
over resentful memories — as if the phantom forms of all the past 
joys and self-renewing sorrows, all the sins and wrongs, all the 
disappointments and failures of the house, had floated up, 
generation after generation, into that abode of helpless brooding, 
and there hung hovering above the fast fleeting life below, which 
now, in its turn, was ever sending up like fumes from heart and 
brain, to crowd the dim, dreary, larva-haunted, dream-wallowing 
chaos of half-obliterated thought and feeling. To Florimel it 
looked a dread waste, a region deserted and forgotten, mysterious 
with far-reaching nooks of darkness, and now awful with the 
wind raving and howling over slates and leads so close to them 
on all sides, — as if a flying army of demons were tearing at 
the roof to get in and find covert from pursuit. 

At length they approached Malcolm’s own quarters, where 
they would have to pass the very door of the wizard’s chamber 
to reach a short ladder-like stair that led up into the midst of 
naked rafters, when, coming upon a small storm window near 
the end of a long passage, Lady Florimel stopped and peeped 
out. 

“ The moon is rising,” she said, and stood looking. 

Malcolm glanced over her shoulder. Eastward a dim light 
shone up from behind the crest of a low hill. Great part of the 
sky was clear, but huge masses of broken cloud went sweeping 
across the heavens. The wind had moderated. 

“Aren’t we somewhere near your friend the wizard?” said 
Lady Florimel, with a slight tremble in the tone of mockery with 
which she spoke. 

Malcolm answered as if he were not quite certain. 

“ Isn’t your own room somewhere hereabouts ? ” asked the 
girl sharply. 

“We’ll jist gang till ae ither queer place,” observed Malcolm, 
pretending not to have heard her, “ and gien the rufe be a’ rieht 
there, I s’ no bather my heid mair aboot it till the mornin’. It’s 
but a feow steps farther, an’ syne a bit stair.” 


. THE SAME NIGHT. 349 

A fit of her not unusual obstinacy had however seized Lady 
Florimel. 

“ I won’t move a step,” she said, “ until you have told me 
where the wizard’s chamber is.” 

“ Ahint ye, my leddy, gien ye wull hae ’t,” answered Malcolm, 
not unwilling to punish her a little ; “ — jist at the far en’ o’ the 
transe there.” 

In fact the window in which she stood, lighted the whole 
length of the passage from which it opened. 

Even as he spoke, there sounded somewhere as it were the 
slam of a heavy iron door, the echoes of which seemed to go 
searching into every cranny of the multitudinous garrets. 
Florimel gave a shriek, and laying hold of Malcolm, clung to him 
in terror. A sympathetic tremor, set in motion by her cry, went 
vibrating through the fisherman’s powerful frame, and, almost 
involuntarily, he clasped her close. With wide eyes they stood 
staring down the long passage, of which, by the poor light they 
carried, they could not see a quarter of the length. Presently 
they heard a soft foot-fall along its floor, drawing slowly nearer 
through the darkness ; and slowly out of the darkness grew the 
figure of a man, huge and dim, clad in a long flowing garment, 
and coming straight on to where they stood. They clung yet 
closer together. The apparition came within three yards of them, 
and then they recognized Lord Lossie in his dressing-gown. 

They started asunder. Florimel flew to her father, and 
Malcolm stood, expecting the last stroke of his evil fortune. The 
marquis looked pale, stern, and agitated. Instead of kissing his 
daughter on the forehead as was his custom, he put her from 
him with one expanded palm, but the next moment drew her to 
his side. Then approaching Malcolm, he lighted at his the 
candle he carried, which a draught had extinguished on the way. 

“ Go to your room, MacPhail,” he said, and turned from him, 
his arm still round Lady Florimel. 

They walked away together down the long passage, vaguely 
visible in flickering fits. All at once their light vanished, and 
with it Malcolm’s eyes seemed to have left him. But a merry 
laugh, the silvery thread in which was certainly Florimel’s, 
reached his ears, and brought him to himself. 


350 


MALCOLM. 


CHAPTER LVI. 

SOMETHING FORGOTTEN. 

I will not trouble my reader with the thoughts that kept rising, 
flickering, and fading, one after another, for two or three dismal 
hours, as he lay with eyes closed but sleepless. At length he 
opened them wide, and looked out into the room. It was a 
bright moonlit night ; the wind had sunk to rest ; all the world 
slept in the exhaustion of the storm ; he only was awake : he 
could lie no longer; he would go out, and discover, if possible, 
the mischief the tempest had done. 

He crept down the little spiral stair used only by the servants, 
and knowing all the mysteries of lock and bar, was presently in 
the open air. First he sought a view of the building against the 
sky, but could not see that any portion was missing. He then 
proceeded to walk round the house, in order to find what had 
fallen. 

There was a certain neglected spot nearly under his own 
window, where a wall across an interior angle formed a little court 
or yard ; he had once peeped in at the door of it, which was always 
half open, and seemed incapable of being moved in either direc- 
tion, but had seen nothing except a broken pail and a pile of 
brushwood ; the flat arch over this door was broken, and the 
door itself half-buried in a heap of blackened stones and mortar. 
Here was the avalanche whose fall had so terrified the house- 
hold ! The formless mass had yesterday been a fair-proportioned 
and ornate stack of chimneys. 

He scrambled to the top of the heap and sitting down on a 
stone carved with a plaited Celtic band, yet again fell a-thinking. 
The marquis must dismiss him in the morning ; would it not be 
better to go away now, hnd spare poor old Duncan a terrible fit 
of rage? He would suppose he had fled from the pseudo-mater- 
nal net of Mrs Stewart ; and not till he had found a place to 
which he could welcome him would he tell him the truth. But his 
nature recoiled both from the unmanliness of such a flight, and 
from the appearance of conscious wrong it must involve, and he 
dismissed the notion. Scheme after scheme for the future passed 
through his head, and still he sat on the heap in the light of the 
high-gliding moon, like a ghost on the ruins of his earthly home, 
and his eyes went listlessly straying like servants without a 


SOMETHING FORGOTTEN. 


351 

master. Suddenly he found them occupied with a lew iron- 
studded door in the wall of the house, which he had never seen 
before. He descended, and found it hardly closed, for there was 
no notch to receive the heavy latch. Pushing it open on great 
rusty hinges, he saw within what in the shadow appeared a pre- 
cipitous descent. His curiosity was roused; he stole back to 
his room and fetched his candle ; and having, by the aid of his 
tinder-box, lighted it in the shelter of the heap, peeped again 
through the doorway, and saw what seemed a narrow cylindrical 
pit, only, far from showing a great yawning depth, it was filled 
with stones and rubbish nearly to the bottom of the door. The 
top of the door reached almost to the vaulted roof, one part of 
which, close to the inner side of the circular wall, was broken. 
Below this breach, fragments of stone projected from the wall, 
suggesting the remnants of a stair. With the sight came a fore- 
sight of discovery. 

One foot on the end of a long stone sticking vertically from 
the rubbish, and another on one of the stones projecting from the 
wall, his head was already through the break in the roof ; and in 
a minute more he was climbing a small, broken, but quite pass- 
able spiral staircase, almost a counterpart of that already de- 
scribed as going like a huge augerbore through the house from 
top to bottom — that indeed by which he had just descended. 
There was most likely more of it buried below, probably com- 
municating with an outlet in some part of the rock towards the 
burn, but the portion of it which, from long neglect, had gradu- 
ally given way, had fallen down the shaft, and cut off the rest 
with its ruins. 

At the height of a storey, he came upon a built-up doorway, 
and again, at a similar height, upon another ; but the parts filled 
in looked almost as old as the rest of the wall Not until he 
reached the top of the stair, did he find a door. It was iron- 
studded, and heavily hinged, like that below. It opened outward 
— noiselessly he found, as if its hinges had been recently oiled, 
and admitted him to a small closet, the second door of which he 
opened hurriedly, with a beating heart. Yes! there was the 
check-curtained bed ! it must be the wizard’s chamber ! Cross- 
ing to another door, he found it both locked and further secured 
by a large iron bolt in a strong staple. This latter he drew back, 
but there was no key in the lock. With scarce a doubt remain- 
ing, he shot down the one stair and flew up the other to try the 
key that lay in his chest. One moment and he stood in the 
Bame room, admitted by the door next his own. 

Some exposure was surely not far off ! Anyhow here was room 


352 


MALCOLM ; 


for counter plot, on the chance of baffling something underhand 
— villainy most likely, where Mrs Catanach was concerned ! — 
And yet, with the control of it thus apparently given into his 
hands, he must depart, leaving the house at the mercy of a low 
woman — for the lock of the wizard’s door would not exclude her 
long if she wished to enter and range the building ! He would 
not go, however, without revealing all to the marquis, and would 
at once make some provision towards her discomfiture. 

Going to the forge, and bringing thence a long bar of iron to 
use as a lever, he carefully drew from the door-frame the staple of 
the bolt, and then replaced it so, that, while it looked just as 
before, a good push would now send it into the middle of the 
room. Lastly, he slid the bolt into it, and having carefully re- 
moved all traces of disturbance, left the mysterious chamber by 
its own stair, and once more ascending to the passage, locked the 
door, and retired to his room with the key. 

He had now plenty to think about beyond himself! Here 
certainly was some small support to the legend of the wizard eark 
The stair which he had discovered, had been in common use at 
one time ; its connection with other parts of the house had been 
cut off with an object; and by degrees it had come to be for- 
gotten altogether ; many villainies might have been effected by 
means of it. Mrs Catanach must have discovered it the same 
night on which he found her there, had gone away by it then, and 
had certainly been making use of it since. When he smelt the 
sulphur, she must have been lighting a match. 

It was now getting towards morning, and at last he was tired. He 
went to bed and fell asleep. When he woke, it was late, and as 
he dressed, he heard the noise of hoofs and wheels in the stable 
yard. He was sitting at breakfast in Mrs Courthope’s room, 
when she came in full of surprise at the sudden departure of 
her lord and lady. The marquis had rung for his man, and Lady 
Florimel for her maid, as soon as it was light ; orders were sent 
at once to the stable ; four horses were put to the travelling car- 
riage ; and they were gone, Mrs Courthope could not tell 
whither. 

Dreary as was the house without Florimel, things had turned 
out a shade or two better than Malcolm had expected, and he 
braced himself to endure his loss. 


THE LAIRD'S QUEST. 


353 


CHAPTER LVII. 

THE LAIRD’S QUEST. 

Things were going pretty well with the laird : Phemy and he 
drew yet closer to each other, and as he became yet more peace- 
ful in her company, his thoughts flowed more freely, and his 
utterance grew less embarrassed ; until at length, in talking with 
her, his speech was rarely broken with even a slight impediment, 
and a stranger might have overheard a long conversation between 
them without coming to any more disparaging conclusion in 
regard to him than that the hunchback was peculiar in mind as 
well as in body. But his nocturnal excursions continuing to cause 
her apprehension, and his representations of the delights to be 
gathered from Nature while she slept, at the same time alluring 
her greatly, Phemy had become, both for her own pleasure and 
his protection, anxious in these also to be his companion. 

With a vital recognition of law, and great loyalty to any utter- 
ance of either parent, she had yet been brought up in an atmo- 
sphere of such liberty, that except a thing were expressly so con- 
ditioned, or in itself appeared questionable, she never dreamed 
of asking permission to do it ; and, accustomed as she had been 
to go with the laird everywhere, and to be out with him early and 
late, her conscience never suggested the possibility of any 
objection to her getting up at twelve, instead of four or five, to 
accompany him. It was some time, however, before the laird 
himself would consent ; and then he would not unfrequently 
interpose with limitations, especially, if the night were not mild 
and dry, sending her always home again to bed. The mutual 
rule and obedience between them was something at once strange 
and lovely 

At midnight Phemy would enter the shop, and grope her way 
until she stood under the trap-door. This was the nearest she 
\ could come to the laird’s chamber, for he had not only declined 
having the ladder stand there for his use, but had drawn a solemn 
promise from the carpenter that at night it should always be left 
slung up to the joists. For himself he had made a rope-ladder, 
which he could lower from beneath when he required it, invariably 
drew up after him, and never used for coming down. 

One night Phemy made her customary signal by knocking 
against the trap-door with a long slip of wood : it opened, and, as 
usual, the body of the laird appeared, hung for a moment in the 


354 


MALCOLM. 


square gap, like a huge spider, by its two hands, one on each 
side, then dropped straight to the floor, when, without a word, he 
hastened forth, and Phemy followed. 

The night was very still — and rather dark, for it was cloudy 
about the horizon, and there was no moon. Hand-in-hand the 
two made for the shore — here very rocky — a succession of pro- 
montories with little coves between. Down into one of these 
they went by a winding path, and stood at the lip of the sea. A 
violet dimness, or, rather, a semi-transparent darkness, hung over 
it, through which came now and then a gleam, where the slow 
heave of some Triton shoulder caught a shine of the sky ; a hush 
also, as of sleep, hung over it, which not to break, the wavelets 
of the rising tide carefully stilled their noises ; and the dimness 
and the hush seemed one. They sat down on a rock that rose 
but a foot or two from the sand and for some moments listened 
in silence to the inarticulate story of the night. 

At length the laird turned to Phemy, and taking one of her 
hands in both of his, very solemnly said, as if breaking to her his 
life’s trouble, — 

“ Phemy, I dinna ken whaur I cam frae.” 

“ Hoot, laird ! ye ken weel eneuch ye cam frae Go-od,” answered 
Phemy, lengthening out the word with solemn utterance. 

The laird did not reply, and again the night closed around 
them, and the sea hushed at their hearts. But a soft light air 
began to breathe from the south, and it waked the laird to more 
active thought. 

“Gien he wad but come oot an* shaw himsel’!” he said. 
“ What for disna he come oot ? ” 

“ Wha wad ye hae come oot ? ” asked Phemy. 

“ Ye ken wha, weel eneuch. They say he ’s a* gait at ance : 
jist hearken. What for will he aye bide in, an’ never come oot an' 
lat a puir body see him ? ” 

The speech was broken into pauses, filled by the hush rather 
than noise of the tide, and the odour-like wandering of the soft 
air in the convolutions of their ears. 

“ The lown win’ maun be his breath — sae quaiet ! — He ’s no 
hurry in’ himsel’ the nicht. — There ’s never naebody rins efter him. 
— Eh, Phemy ! I jist thoucht he was gaum’ to speyk ! ” 

This last exclamation he uttered in a whisper, as the louder 
gush of a larger tide-pulse died away on the shore. 

“ I ,uik, Phemy, luik ! ” he resumed. “ Luik oot yonnei ! 
Dinna ye see something ’at micht grow to something ?” 

His eyes were fixed on a faint spot of steely blue, out on the 
sea, not far from the horizon. It was hard to account for, with 


355 


THE LAIRD'S QUEST. 

such a sky overheard, wherein was no lighter part to be seen that 
might be reflected in the water below; but neither of the be- 
holders was troubled about its cause : there it glimmered on in 
the dimness of the wide night — a cold, faint splash of blue-grey, 

“ I dinna think muckle o’ that, sir,” said Phemy. 

“ It micht be the mark o’ the sole o’ his fut, though,” returned 
the laird. “He micht hae jist setten ’t doon, an’ the watter hae 
lowed ( flamed ) up aboot it, an’ the low no be willin , to gang oot ! 
Luik sharp, Phemy ; there may come anither at the neist stride — 
anither fut-mark. Luik ye that gait an’ I’ll luik this.— What for 
willna he come oot ? The lift maun be fu’ o’ ’im, an’ I ’m hungert 
tor a sicht o’ ’im. Gien ye see ony thing, Phemy, cry oot.” 

“ What will I cry ? ” asked Phemy. 

“ Cry ‘ Father o’ lichts ! ’ ” answered the laird. 

“ Will he hear to that — div ye think, sir ? ” 

“ Wha kens ! He micht jist turn his heid ; an’ ae luik wad sair 
me for a hunner year.” 

“ I s’ cry, gien I see onything,” said Phemy. 

As they sat watching, by degrees the laird’s thought swerved a 
little. His gaze had fixed on the northern horizon, where, as if 
on the outer threshold of some mighty door, long low clouds, with 
varied suggestion of recumbent animal forms, had stretched them- 
selves, like creatures of the chase, watching for their lord to issue. 

“ Maybe he’s no oot o’ the hoose yet,” he said. “ Surely it 
canna be but he comes oot ilka nicht ! He wad never hae made 
sic a sicht o’ bonny things to lat them lie wi’oot onybody to 
gaither them ! An’ there’s nae ill fowk the furth at this time o’ 
nicht, ta mak an oogly din, or disturb him wi’ the sicht o’ tnem. 
He maun come oot i’ the quaiet o’ the nicht, or else what’s ’t a’ 
for ? — Ay ! he keeps the nicht till himsel’, an’ lea’s the day to hiz 
(t/s). That ’ll be what the deep sleep fa’s upo’ men for, doobtless 
— to haud them oot o’ his gait ! Eh ! I wuss he wad come oot 
whan I was by ! I micht get a glimp o’ ’m. — Maybe he wad tak 
the hump aff o’ me, an’ set things in order i’ my heid, an’ mak me 
like ither fowk. Eh me ! that wad be gran’ ! Naebody wad daur 
to touch me syne. Eh, Michty ! come oot 1 Father o’ lichts ! 
Father o’ lichts ! ” 

He went on repeating the words till, growing softer and softer, 
his voice died away in silence, and still as his seat of stone he 
sat, a new Job, on the verge of the world-waters, like the old 
Job on his dunghill when he cried out, — 

“ Lo, he goeth by me, and I see him not ; he passeth on also, 
but I perceive him not. — Call thou, and I will answer; or let me 
speak and answer thou me. — Oh that I knew where I might find 


356 


MALCOLM. 


him ? that I might come even to his seat! — Behold I go forward, 
but he is not there ; and backward, but I cannot perceive him ; 
on the left hand, where he doth work, but I cannot behold him ; 
he hideth himself on the right hand, that I cannot see him.” 

At length he rose and wandered away from the shore, his 
head sunk upon his chest. Phemy rose also and followed him 
in silence. The child had little of the poetic element in her 
nature, but she had much of that from which everything else has 
to be developed — heart. When they reached the top of the 
brae, she joined him, and said, putting her hand in his, but not 
looking at, or even turning towards him, — 

“ Maybe he 'll come oot upo’ ye afore ye ken some day — whan 
ye ’re no luikin’ for him.” 

The laird stopped, gazed at her for a moment, shook his head, 
and walked on. 

Grassy steeps everywhere met the stones and sands of the 
shore, and the grass and the sand melted, as it were, and vanished 
each in the other. Just where they met in the next hollow, stood 
a small building of stone with a tiled roof. It was now strangely 
visible through the darkness, for from every crevice a fire- 
illumined smoke was pouring. But the companions were not 
alarmed or even surprised. They bent their way towards it with- 
out hastening a step, and coming to a fence that enclosed a space 
around it, opened a little gate, and passed through. A sleepy 
watchman challenged them. 

“ It ’s me,” said the laird. 

“ A fine nicht, laird,” returned the voice, and said no more. 

The building was divided into several compartments, each 
with a separate entrance. On the ground in each burned four 
or five little wood fires, and the place was filled with smoke and 
glow. The smoke escaped partly by openings above the doors, 
but mostly by the crannies of the tiled roof. Ere it reached 
these, however, it had to pass through a great multitude of 
pendent herrings. Hung up by the gills, layer above layer, 
nearly to the roof, their last tails came down as low as the laird’s 
head. From beneath nothing was to be seen but a firmament of 
herring-tails. These fish were the last of the season, and were 
thus undergoing the process of kippering. It was a new venture 
in the place, and its success as yet a question. 

The laird went into one of the compartments, and searching 
about a little amongst the multitude within his reach, took down 
a plump one, then cleared away the blazing wood from the top 
of one of the fires, and laid his choice upon the glowing embers 
beneath 


THE LAIRDS QUEST. 


357 


u What are ye duin’ there, laird ? ” cried Phemv from without, 
whose nostrils the resulting odour had quickly reached. “ The 
fish is no yours.” 

“Ye dinna think I wad tak it wantin’ leave, Phemy !” returned 
the laird. “ Mony a supper hae I made this w’y, an’ mony 
anither I houp to mak. It’ll no be this sizzon though, for this* 
lot’s the last o’ them. They’re fine aitin’, but I’m some feart 
they winna keep.” 

“ Wha gae ye leave, sir ? ” persisted Phemy showing herself the 
indivertible guardian of his morals as well as of his freedom. 

“ Ow, Mr Runcie himsel’, of coorse ! ” answered the laird. 
“ — Wull I pit ane on to you? ” 

“ Did ye speir leave for me tu ? ” asked the righteous maiden. 

“ Ow, na ; but I’ll tell him the neist time I see him.” 

“ I ’m nae for ony,” said Phemy. 

The fish wanted little cooking. The laird turned it, and after 
another half-minute of the fire, took it up by the tail, sat down 
on a stone beside the door, spread a piece of paper on his knees, 
laid the fish upon it, pulled a lump of bread from his pocket, 
and proceeded to make his supper. Ere he began, however, he 
gazed all around with a look which Phemy interpreted as a 
renewed search for the Father of lights, whom he would fain 
thank for his gifts. When he had finished, he threw the remnants 
into one of the fires, then went down to the sea, and there washed 
his face and hands in a rock-pool, after which they set off again, 
straying yet further along the coast. 

One of the peculiarities in the friendship of the strange couple 
was, that, although so closely attached, they should maintain 
such a large amount of mutual independence. They never 
quarrelled, but would flatly disagree, with never an attempt at 
compromise ; the whole space between midnight and morning 
would sometimes glide by without a word spoken between them ; 
and the one or the other would often be lingering far behind. 
As, however, the ultimate goal of the night’s wandering was 
always understood between them, there was little danger of their 
losing each other. 

On the present occasion, the laird, still full of his quest, was 
the one who lingered. Every few minutes he would stop and 
stare, now all around the horizon, now up to the zenith, now 
over the wastes of sky— for, any moment, from any spot in 
heaven, earth, or sea, the Father of lights might show foot, or 
hand, or face. He had at length seated himself on a lichen- 
covered stone with his; head buried in his hands, as if, wearied 
with vain search for him outside he would now look within and 


353 


MALCOLM. 


see if God might not be there, when suddenly a sharp exclama- 
tion from Phemy reached him. He listened. 

“ Rin ! rin ! rin ! she cried — the last word prolonged into a 
scream. 

While it yet rang in his ears, the laird was half-way down the 
steep. In the open country he had not a chance ; but, knowing 
every cranny in the rocks large enough to hide him, with anything 
like a start near enough to the shore for his short-lived speed, he 
was all but certain to evade his pursuers, especially in such a 
dark night as this. 

He was not in the least anxious about Phemy, never imagining 
she might be less sacred in other eyes than in his, and knowing 
neither that her last cry of loving solitude had gathered intensity 
from a cruel grasp, nor that while he fled in safety, she remained 
a captive. 

Trembling and panting like a hare just escaped from the 
hounds, he squeezed himself into a cleft, where he sat half 
covered with water until the morning began to break. Then he 
drew himself out and crept along the shore, from point to point, 
with keen circumspection, until he was right under the village 
and within hearing of its inhabitants, when he ascended hurriedly, 
and ran home. But having reached his burrow, pulled down his 
rope ladder, and ascended, he found, with trebled dismay, that 
his loft had been invaded during the night. Several of the hooked 
cords had been cut away, on one or two were shreds of clothing, 
and on the window-sill was a drop of blood. 

He threw himself on the mound for a moment, then started to 
his feet, caught up his plaid, tumbled from the loft, and fled from 
Scaurnose as if a visible pestilence had been behind him. 


CHAPTER LVIII. 

MALCOLM AND MRS STEWART. 

When her parents discovered that Phemy was not in her garret, 
it occasioned them no anxiety. When they had also discovered 
that neither was the laird in his loft, and were naturally seized 
with the dread that some evil had befallen him, his hitherto in- 
variable habit having been to house himself with the first gleam 
of returning day, they supposed that Phemy, finding he had not 
returned, had set out to look for him. As the day wore on, 
however, without her appearing, they began to be a little uneasy 


MALCOLM AND MRS STEWART. 


359 


about her as well. Still the two might be together, and the 
explanation of their absence a very simple and satisfactory one; 
for a time therefore they refused to admit importunate disquiet. 
But before night, anxiety, like the slow but persistent waters of a 
flood, had insinuated itself through their whole being — nor theirs 
alone, but had so mastered and possessed the whole village that at 
length all employment was deserted, and every person capable 
joined in a search along the coast, fearing to find their bodies at the 
foot of some cliff. The report spread to the neighbouring villages. 
In Portlossie Duncan went round with his pipes, arousing attention 
by a brief blast, and then crying the loss at every corner. As soon 
as Malcolm heard of it, he hurried to find Joseph, but the only 
explanation of their absence he was prepared to suggest was one 
that had already occurred to almost everybody — that the laird, 
namely, had been captured by the emissaries of his mother, and 
that, to provide against a rescue, they had carried off his com- 
panion with him — on which supposition, there was every 
probability that, within a few days at farthest, Phemy would be 
restored unhurt. 

“ There can be little doobt they hae gotten a grip o’ ’m at last, 
puir fallow!” said Joseph. “ But whatever ’s come till him, we 
canna sit doon an’ ait oor mait ohn kent hoo Phemy ’s farin’, puit 
wee lamb ! Ye maun jist haud awa’ ower to Kirkbyres, Ma’colm, 
an’ get word o’ yer mither, an’ see gien onything can be made 
oot o’ her.” 

The proposal fell on Malcolm like a great billow. 

“ Blue Peter,” he said, looking him in the face, “ I took it as a 
mark o’ yer freen’ship ’at ye never spak the word to me. What 
richt has ony man to ca’ that wuman my mither? I hae never 
allooed it ! ” 

“I’m thinkin’,” returned Joseph, the more easily nettled that 
his horizon also was full of trouble, “your word upo’ the maitter 
winna gang sae far ’s John o’ Groat’s. Ye’ll no be suppeent for 
your witness upo’ the pint” 

“ x W ad as sune gang a mile intill the mou’ o’ hell, as gang to 
Kirkbyres 1 ” said Malcolm. 

“ I hae my answer,” said Peter, and turned away. 

« But I s’ gang,” Malcolm went on. “ The thing ’at maun be 
can be. — Only I tell ye this, Peter,” he added, “ — gien ever ye say 
sic a word ’s yon i’ my hearin’ again, that is, afore the wuman has 
priven hersel’ what she says, I s’ gang by ye ever efter ohn spoken, 
for I ’ll ken ’at ye want nae mair o’ me." 

Joseph, who had been standing with his back to his friend, 
turned and held out his hand. Malcolm took it 


36o 


MALCOLM. 


“ Ae question afore I gang, Peter,” he said. “ — -What for 
didna ye tell me what fowk was sayin’ aboot me — anent Lizzy 
Findlay ? * 

“ ’Cause I didna believe a word o’ ’t, an’ I wasna gaein’ to add 
to yer troubles.” 

“ Lizzy never mootit sic a thing? ” 

“ Never.” 

“ I was sure o’ that! — Noo I ’ll awa’ to Kirkbyres — God help 
me ! I wad raither face Sawtan an’ his muckle tyke. — But dinna 
ye expec’ ony news. Gien yon ane kens, she’s a’ the surer no to 
tell. Only ye sanna say I didna du my best for ye.” 

It was the hardest trial of the will Malcolm had yet had to en- 
counter. Trials of submission he had had, and tolerably severe 
ones : but to go and do what the whole feeling recoils from is to 
be weighed only against abstinence from what the whole feeling 
urges towards. He walked determinedly home. Stoat saddled a 
horse for him while he changed his dress, and once more he set 
out for Kirkbyres. 

Had Malcolm been at the time capable of attempting an 
analysis of his feeling towards Mrs Stewart, he would have found 
it very difficult to effect. Satisfied as he was of the untruthful — 
even cruel nature of the woman who claimed him, and conscious 
of a strong repugnance to any nearer approach between them, he 
was yet aware of a certain indescribable fascination in her. This, 
however, only caused him to recoil from her the more — partly 
from dread lest it might spring from the relation asserted, and 
partly that, whatever might be its root, it wrought upon him in a 
manner he scarcely disliked the less that it certainly had nothing to 
do with the filial. But his feelings were too many and too active 
to admit of the analysis of any one of them, and ere he reached 
the house his mood had grown fierce. 

He was shown into a room where the fire had not been many 
minutes lighted. It had long narrow windows, over which the ivy 
had grown so thick, that he was in it some moments ere he saw 
through the dusk that it was a library — not half the size of that 
at Lossie House, but far more ancient, and, although evidently 
neglected, more study-like. 

A few minutes passed, then the door softly opened, and Mrs 
Stewart glided swiftly across the floor with outstretched arms. 

“At last!” she said, and would have elapsed him to her bosom. 

But Malcolm stepped back. 

“ Na, na, mem ! ” he said ; “ it taks twa to that ! ” 

“ Malcolm ! ” she exclaimed, her voice trembling with emotion 
—of some kind. 


MALCOLM AND MRS STEWART. 


361 


n Ye may ca’ me your son, mem, but I ken nae grW yet for 

ca’in’ you my ” 

He could not say the word. 

“ That is very true, Malcolm,” she returned gently ; “ but this 
interview is not of my seeking. I wish to precipitate nothing. 
So long as there is a single link, or half a link even, missing from 
the chain of which one end hangs at my heart — ” 

She paused, with her hand on her bosom, apparently to sup- 
press rsing emotion. Had she had the sentence ready for 
use ? 

“ — I will not subject myself,” she went on, “to such treatment 
as it seems I must look for from you. It is hard to lose a son, 
but it is harder yet to find him again after he has utterly ceased 
to be one.” 

Here she put her handkerchief to her eyes. 

“ Till the matter is settled, however,” she resumed, “let us be 
friends — or at least not enemies. — What did you come for now ? 
Not to insult me surely. Is there anything I can do for you?” 

Malcolm felt the dignity of her behaviour, but not the less, 
after his own straightforward manner, answered her question to 
the point, 

“ I cam aboot naetning concernin’ mysel’, mem, I cam to see 
whether ye kent onything aboot Phemy Mair.” 

“ Is it a wo ? — I don’t even know who she is. — You don’t 

mean the young woman that ? — Why do you come to me 

about her ? Who is she ? 

Malcolm hesitated a moment : if she really did not know what 
he meant, was there any risk in telling her ? But he saw none. 

“ Wha is she, mem ! ” he returned. “ — I whiles think she maun 
be the laird’s guid angel, though in shape she’s but a wee bit 
lassie. She maks up for a heap to the laird. — Him an’ her, 
mem, they ’ve disappeart thegither, naebody kens whaur.” 

Mrs Stewart laughed a low unpleasant laugh, but made no 
other reply. Malcolm went on. 

“ An’ it’s no to be wonnert at gien fowk wull hae ’t ’at ye maun 
ken something aboot it, mem.” 

“ I know nothing whatever,” she returned emphatically. “ Be- 
lieve me or not, as you please,” she added, with heightened 
colour. “ If I did know anything,” she went on, with apparent 
truthfulness, “ I don’t know that I should feel bound to tell it. 
As it is, however, I can only say I know nothing of either of 
them. That I do say most solemnly.” 

Malcolm turned, — satisfied at least that he could learn no 
more. 


362 


MALCOLM, 


“You are not going to leave me so?” the l.idy said, and her 
face grew “ sad as sad could be.” 

“ There’s naething mair atween ’s, mem,” answered Malcolm, 
without turning even his face. 

“ You will be sorry for treating me so some day.” 

“ Weel than, mem, I will be ; but that day’s no the day (to-day)” 

“Think what you could do for your poor witless brother, 
if •” 

“ Mem,” interrupted Malcolm, turning right round and draw- 
ing himself up in anger, “ priv’ ’at I ’m your son, an’ thatmeenute 
I speir at you wha was my father.” 

Mrs Stewart changed colour — neither with the blush of inno- 
cence nor with the pallor of guilt, but with the gray of mingled 
rage and hatred. She took a step forward with the quick move- 
ment of a snake about to strike, but stopped midway, and stood 
looking at him with glittering eyes, teeth clenched, and lips half 
open. 

Malcolm returned her gaze for a moment or two. 

“ Ye never was the mither, whaever was the father o’ me ! ” he 
said, and walked out of the room. 

He had scarcely reached the door, when he heard a heavy fall, 
and looking round saw the lady lying motionless on the floor. 
Thoroughly on his guard, however, and fearful both of her hatred 
and her blandishments, he only made the more haste down stairs, 
where he found a maid, and sent her to attend to her mistress. In 
a minute he was mounted and trotting fast home, considerably 
happier than before, inasmuch as he was now almost beyond 
doubt convinced that Mrs Stewart was not his mother. 


CHAPTER LIX. 

AN HONEST PLOT. 

Ever since the visit of condolence with which the narrative of 
these events opened, there had been a coolness between Mrs 
Mellis and Miss Horn. Mr Mellis’s shop was directly opposite 
Miss Horn’s house, and his wife’s parlour was over tne shop, 
looking into the street ; hence the two neighbours could not but 
see each other pretty often ; beyond a stiff nod, however, no sign 
of smouldering friendship had as yet broken out. Miss Horn 
was consequently a good deal surprised when, having gone into 


AN HONEST PLOT. 


3^3 


the shop to buy some trifle, Mr Mellis informed her, in all but a 
whisper, that his wife was very anxious to see her alone for a 
moment, and begged her to have the goodness to step up to the 
parlour. His customer gave a small snort, betraying her fin/ 
impulse to resentment, but her nobler nature, which was neve 4 * 
far from the surface, constrained her compliance. 

Mrs Mellis rose hurriedly when the plumb-line figure of her 
neighbour appeared, ushered in by her husband, and received her 
with a somewhat embarrassed empressement, arising from the con- 
sciousness of good-will disturbed by the fear of imputed meddle- 
someness. She knew the inward justice of Miss Horn, however, 
and relied upon that, even while she encouraged herself by 
waking up the ever present conviction of her own superiority in 
the petite morale of social intercourse. Her general tendency 
indeed was to look down upon Miss Horn : is it not usually the 
less that looks down on the greater ? I had almost said it must 
be, for that the less only can look down ; but that would not hold 
absolutely in the kingdoms of this world, while in the kingdom 
of heaven it is all looking up. 

“ Sit ye doon, Miss Horn,” she said ; “ it ’s a lang time sin we 
had a news thegither.” 

Miss Horn seated herself with a begrudged acquiescence.” 

Had Mrs Mellis been more of a tactician, she would have dug 
ft few approaches ere she opened fire upon the fortress of her 
companion’s fair-hearing : but instead of that, she at once dis- 
charged the imprudent question — 

“ Was ye at hame last nicht, mem, atween the hoors o’ ancht 
an’ nine?” — a shot which instantly awoke in reply the wholi 
battery o f Miss Horn’s indignation. 

“ Wha am I, to be speirt sic a queston ? Wha but yersel’ wad 
hae daurt it, Mistress Mellis? * 

“ Huly {softly), huly, Miss Horn ! ” expostulated her ques- 
tioner. “I hae nae wuss to pry intill ony secrets o’ yours, 
or — ” 

“ Secrets ! ” shouted Miss Horn ! 

But her consciousness of good intent, and all but assurance of 
final victory, upheld Mrs Mellis. 

“ — or Jean’s aither,” she went on, apparently regardless; 
" but I wad fain be sure ye kent a’ aboot yer ain hoose ’at a 
body micht chance to see frae the croon o’ the caus’ay {middle oj 
the street).” 

*‘ The parlour-blind ’s gane up crookit sin’ ever that thooml> 
fingert cratur, Watty Witherspail, made a new roller till ’t. Gien 
*t be that ye mean, Mistress Mellis, — ” 


5^4 


MALCOLM. 


“ Hoots ! n returned the other. “ — Hoo far can ye lipped t<r 
that Jean o’ yours, mem ? ” 

“ Nae farer nor the len’th o’ my nose, an’ the breid o' my tvV*. 
een,” was the scornful answer. 

Although, however, she thus manifested her resentment of 
Mrs Mellis’s catechetical attempts it introducing her subject, 
Miss Horn had no desire to prevent the free outcome of her 
approaching communication. 

“In that case, I may speyk oot,” said Mrs Mellis. 

“ Use yer freedom.’’ 

“ Weel, I will Ye was hardly oot o’ the hoose last nicht, 
afore — ” 

“ Ye saw me gang oot ? * 

“Ay did I.” 

“What gart ye speir than? What for sud a body come 
screwin’ up a straucht stair — noo the face an’ noo the back o’ 
her ? ” 

“Weel, I nott ( needed ) na hae speirt. But that’s naething to 
the p’int. — Ye hadna been gane, as I was saying’, ower a five 
meenutes, whan in cam a licht intill the bedroom neist the par- 
lour, an’ Jean appeart wi’ a can’le in her han’. There was nae 
licht i’ this room but the licht o’ the fire, an’ no muckle o’ that, 
for ’twas maistly peat, sae I saw her weel eneuch ohn been 
seen mysel’. She cam straucht to the window, and drew doon the 
blind, but lost hersel’ a bit or she wad never hae set doon her 
can’le whaur it cuist a shaidow o’ hersel’ an’ her doin’s upo’ the 
blind.” 

“ An’ what was ’t she was efter, the jaud ? ” cried Miss Horn, 
without any attempt to conceal her growing interest. 

“ She made naething o’ ’t, whatever it was ; for doon the street 
cam the schuilmaister, an’ chappit at the door, an gaed in an’ 
waitit till ye came hame.” 

“ Weel ! ? ” said Miss Horn. 

But Mrs Mellis held her peace. 

“ Weel ! ! ? ” repeated Miss Horn. 

* Weel,” returned Mrs Mellis, with a curious mixture of 
deference and conscious sagacity in her tone, “ a’ ’at I tak upo’ 
me to say is — Think ye twice afore ye lippen to that Jean o’ yours.” 

“ I lippen naething till her ! I wad as sune lippen to the 
dottle o’ a pipe amo’ dry strae. What saw ye, Mistress Mellis?” 

“ Ye needna speyk like that,” returned Mrs Mellis, for Miss 
Horn’s tone was threatening : “ I’m no Jean.” 

“ What saw ye ? ” repeated Miss Horn, more gently, but not 
less eagerly. 


AN HONEST PLOT . 365 

"Whause is that kist o’ mahogany drawers i’ that bedroom, 
gien I may preshume ta spier?” 

“ VVhause but mine ? ” 

“ They’re no Jean’s ? ” 

“ Jean’s ! !” 

“Ye micht hae latten her keep her bit duds i* them, for ony- 
thing I kent ! ” 

“Jean’s duds i’ my Grizel’s drawers ! A lik’ly thing ! ” 

“ Hm ! They war puir Miss Cam’ell’s, war they ? ” 

“They war Grizell Cam’ell’s drawers as lang she had use forony ; 
but what for ye sud say puir till her, I dinna ken, ’cep’ it be ’at 
she’s gane whaur they haena muckle ’at needs layin’ in drawers. 
That’s neither here nor there. — Div ye tell me ’at Jean was 
intromittin’ wi thae drawers ? They’re a’ lockit, ilk ane o’ them 
~-an’ they’re guid locks.” 

“No ower guid to hae keyes to them — are they ? ” 

“ The keyes are i’ my pooch,” said Miss Horn, clapping her 
hand to the skirt of her dress. “ They’re aye i’ my pooch, 
though I haena had the feelin’s to mak use o’ them sin’ she left 
me.” 

“ Are ye sure they war there last nicht, mem?” 

Miss Horn seemed struck. 

“ I had on my black silk last nicht ! ” she answered vaguely, 
and was here silent, pondering doubtfully. 

“ Weel, mem, jist ye put on yer black silk again the morn’s 
nicht, an’ come ower aboot aucht o’clock ; an’ ye’ll be able to 
jeedge by her ongang whan ye’re no i’ the hoose, gein there be 
onything amiss wi’ J ean. There canna be muckle ill dune yet — 
that’s a comfort ! ” 

“ What ill, by ( beyond ) meddlin’ wi’ what doesna concern her, 
cud the wuman du ? ” said Miss Horn, with attempted con- 
fidence. 

“That ye sud ken best yersel’, mem. But Jean’s an awfu’ 
gossip, an’ a lady like yer cousin micht hae left dockiments ahint 
her ’at she wadna jist like to hear procleemt frae the hoose-tap. 
No ’at she ’ll ever hear onything mair, puir thing ! ” 

“ What mean ye ? ” cried Miss ‘Horn, half frightened, half 
angry. 

“Jist what I say — neither mair nor less,” returned Mrs Mellis. 
“ Miss Cam’ell may weel hae left letters for enstance, an’ hoo 
wad they fare in Jean’s han’s?” 

“ Whan / never had the hert to open her drawers!” exclaimed 
Miss Horn, enraged at the very notion of the crime. “ / hae 
me feelin’s, thank God for the furnishin’ o’ me 1 " 


366 


MALCOLM. 


“ I doobt Jean has her full share o’ a* feelin’s belangin’ to 
fallen human natur’,” said Mrs Mellis, with a slow horizontal 
oscillation of the head. “ But ye jist come an* see wi’ yer ain 
een, an’ syne jeedge for yerseP : it ’s nae business o’ mine.” 

“ I’ll come the nicht, Mrs Mellis. Only lat it be atween ’s twa.” 

“ I can haud my tongue, mem, — that is, frae a’ but ane. Sae 
lang ’s merried fowk sleeps in ae bed, it ’s ill to haud ony thing 
till a body’s sel’.” 

“ Mr Mellis is a douce man, an’ I carena what he kens.” 
answered Miss Horn. 

She descended to the shop, and having bought bulk enough 
to account to Jean for her lengthened stay, for she had beyond 
a doubt been watching the door of the shop, she crossed the 
street, went up to her parlour, and rang the bell. The same 
moment Jean’s head was popped in at the door: she had her 
reasons for always answering the bell like a bullet. 

“ Mem ?” said Jean. 

“Jean, I’m gaein’ oot the nicht. The minister oucht to be 
spoken till aboot the schuilmaister, honest man. Tak the lantren 
wi’ ye to the manse aboot ten o’clock. That ’ll be time eneuch.” 

“Verra weel, mem. But I'm thinkin’ there’s a mune the 
nicht.” 

“ Naething but the doup o’ ane, Jean. It ’s no to ca’ a mune. 
It’s a mercy we hae lantrens, an’ sic a sicht o’ cairds (gipsies) 
aboot.” 

“ Ay, lantren lats them see whaur ye are, an’ haud oot o’ yer 
gait,” said Jean, who happened not to relish going out that night. 

“ Troth, wuman, ye ’re richt there!” returned her mistress, 
with cheerful assent “ The mair they see o’ ye, the less they ’ll 
meddle wi’ ye — caird or cadger. Haud ye the licht upo’ yer ain 
face, lass, an’ there ’s feow ’ll hae the hert to luik again.” 

“ Haith, mem, there’s twa sic like o’ ’si” returned Jean 
bitterly, and bounced from the room. 

“ That’s true tu,” said her mistress —adding after, the door was 
shut, “ It’s a peetv we cudna haud on thegither.” 

“I’m gaein’ noo, Jean,” she called into the kitchen as she 
crossed the threshold at eight o’clock. 

She turned towards the head of the street, in the direction of 
the manse ; but, out of the range of J ean’s vision, made a circuit, 
and entered Mr Mellis’s house by the garden at the back. 

In the parlour she found a supper prepared to celebrate the 
renewal of old goodwill. The clear crystal on the table ; the new 
loaf so brown without and so white w'ithin ; the rich, clear- 
complexioned butter, undebased with a particle of salt ; the self- 


AN HONEST PLOT. 


367 

satisfied hum of the kettle in attendance for the guidman's toddy ; 
the bright fire, the golden glow of the brass fender in its red 
light, and the dish of boiled potatoes set down before it, unde* 
a snowy cloth ; the pink eggs, the yellow haddock, and the 
crimson strawberry jam; all combined their influences — each 
with its private pleasure wondrously heightened by the zest of a 
secret watch and the hope of discomfitted mischief — to draw into 
a friendship what had hitherto been but a somewhat insecure 
neighbourship. From below came the sound of the shutters 
which Mr Mellis was putting up a few minutes earlier than usual ; 
and when presently they sat down to the table, and, after 
prologue judged suitable, proceeded to enjoy the good things 
before them, an outside observer would have thought they had a 
pleasant evening, if not Time himself, by the forelock. 

But Miss Horn was uneasy. The thought of what Jean might 
have already discovered had haunted her all day long ; for her 
reluctance to open her cousin’s drawers had arisen mainly from 
the dread of finding justified a certain painful suspicion which 
had haunted the whole of her intercourse with Grizell Campbell 
— namely, that the worm of a secret had been lying at the root 
of her life, the cause of all her illness, and of her death at last. 
She had fought with, out-argued, and banished the suspicion a 
thousand times while she was with her, but evermore it had 
returned ; and now since her death, when again and again on the 
point of turning over her things, she had been always deterred 
by the fear, not so much of finding what would pain herself, as 
of discovering what Grizell would not wish her to know. Never 
was there a greater contrast between form and reality, between 
person and being, between manner and nature, than existed in 
Margaret Horn : the shell was rough, the kernel absolute delicacy. 
Not for a moment had her suspicion altered her behaviour to the 
gentle suffering creature towards whom she had adopted the 
relation of an elder and stronger sister. To herself, when most 
satisfied of the existence of a secret, she steadily excused her 
cousin’s withholdment of confidence, on the ground of her own 
lack of feelings : how could she unbosom herself to such as she ! 
And now the thought of eyes like Jean’s exploring Grizell’s 
forsaken treasures, made her so indignant and restless that she 
could hardly even pretend to enjoy her friend’s hospitality. 

Mrs Mellis had so arranged the table and their places, that 
she and her guest had only to lift their eyes to see the window 
of their watch, while she punished her husband for the virile 
claim to greater freedom from curiosity by seating him with his 
back to it, which made him every now and then cast a fidgety 


368 


MALCOLM. 


look over his shoulder — not greatly to the detriment of his 
supper, however. Their plan was, to extinguish their own the 
moment Jean’s light should appear, and so watch without the 
risk of counter-discovery. 

“ There she comes ! ” cried Mrs Mellis ; and her husband and 
Miss Horn made such haste to blow out the candle, that they 
knocked their heads together, blew in each other’s face, and the 
first time missed it. Jean approached the window with hers in her 
hand, and pulled down the blind. But, alas, beyond the form 
of a close bent elbow moving now and then across a corner of 
the white field, no shadow appeared upon it 1 

Miss Horn rose. 

“ Sit doon, mem, sit doon ; ye hae naething to gang upo* yet,” 
exclaimed Mr Mellis, who, being a bailie, was an authority. 

“ I can sit nae langer, Mr Mellis,” returned Miss Horn. “ I 
hae eneuch to gang upo’ as lang’s I hae my ain flure aneth my 
feet: the wuman has nae business there. I’ll jist slip across an* 
gang in, as quaiet as a sowl intill a boady ; but I s’ warnin' I s’ 
mak a din afore I come oot again ! ” 

With a grim diagonal nod she left the room. 

Although it was now quite dark, she yet deemed it prudent to 
go by the garden-gate into the back lane, and so cross the street 
lower down. Opening her own door noiselessly, thanks to J ean, 
who kept the lock well oiled for reasons of Mrs Catanach’s, she 
closed it as silently, and, long-boned as she was, crept up the 
stair like a cat. The light was shining from the room ; the door 
was ajar. She listened at it for a moment, and could distinguish 
nothing ; then fancying she heard the rustle of paper, could bear 
it no longer, pushed the door open, and entered. There stood 
Jean, staring at her with fear-blanched face, a deep top-drawer 
open before her, and her hands full of things she was in the act 
©f replacing. Her terror culminated, and its spell broke in a 
shriek, when her mistress sprang upon her like a tigress. 

The watchers in the opposite house heard no cry, and only saw 
a heave of two intermingled black shadows across the blind, after 
which they neither heard nor saw anything more. The light 
went on burning until its final struggle with the darkness began, 
when it died with many a flickering throb. Unable at last to 
endure the suspense, now growing to fear, any longer, they stole 
across the street, opened the door, and went in. Over the 
kitchen-fire, like an evil spirit of the squabby order, crouched 
Mrs Catanach, waiting for J ean ; no one else was to be found. 

About ten o’clock the same evening, as Mr Graham sat by his 
peat fire, some one lifted the latch of the outer door and knocked 


AN HONEST PLOT. 


369 

at the inner. His invitation to enter was answered by the ap- 
pearance of Miss Horn, gaunt and grim as usual, but with more 
than the wonted fire gleaming from the shadowy cavern of her 
bonnet. She made no apology for the lateness of her visit, but 
seated herself at the other side of the deal table, and laid upon 
it a paper parcel, which she proceeded to open with much de- 
liberation and suppressed plenitude. Having at length untied 
the string with the long fingers of a hand which, notwithstanding 
its evident strength, trembled so as almost to defeat the attempt, 
she took from the parcel a packet of old letters sealed with 
spangled wax, and pushed it across the table to the schoolmaster, 
saying — 

“ Hae, Sandy Graham ! Naebody but yersel’ has a richt to 
say what’s to be dune wi’ them.” 

He put out his hand and took them gently, with a look of sad- 
ness but no surprise. 

“ Dinna think I hae been readin* them, Sandy Graham. Na, 
na ! I wad read nae honest man’s letters, be they written to wha 
they micht." 

Mr Graham was silent 

“Ye’re a guid man, Sandy Graham,* Miss Horn resumed, 
“gien God ever took the pains to mak ane. Dinna think ony- 
thing atween you an’ her wad hae brocht me at this time o’ nicht 
to disturb ye in yer ain chaumer. Na, na! Whatever was 
atween you twa had an honest man intill ’t, an’ I wad hae taen 
my time to gie ye back yer dockiments. Eut there’s some o’ 
anither mark here.” 

As she spoke, she drew from the parcel a small cardboard box, 
broken at the sides, and tied with a bit of tape. This she undid, 
and, turning the box upside down, tumbled its contents out on 
the table before him. 

“ What mak ye o’ sic like as thae ? ” she said. 

“ Do you want me to ? ” asked the schoolmaster with 

trembling voice. 

" I jist div,” she answered. 

They were a number of little notes — some of them but a word 
or two, and signed with initials ; others longer, and signed in 
full. Mr Graham took up one of them reluctantly, and unfolded 
it softly. 

He had hardly looked at it when he started and exclaimed, — 

“ God have mercy 1 What can be the date of this ! ” 

There was no date to it. He held it in his hand for a minute, 
bis eyes fixed on the fire, and his features almost convulsed with 

2 A 


37 <> 


MALCOLM. 


his efforts at composure ; then laid it gently on the table, and 
said but without turning his eyes to Miss Horn, — 

“ I cannot read this. You must not ask me. It refers doubt- 
less to the time when Miss Campbell was governess to Lady 
Annabel. I see no end to be answered by my reading one of 
these letters.” 

“Idaursay! Wha ever saw ’at wadna luik ?” returned Miss 
Horn, with a glance keen as an eagle’s into the thoughtful eyes 
of her friend. 

“ Why not do by the writer of these as you have done by me ? 
Why not take them to him ? ” suggested Mr Graham. 

“ That wad be but thoomb-fingert wark — to lat gang the en’ o’ 
yer hank ! ” exclaimed Miss Horn. 

“ I do not understand you, ma’am.” 

u Weel, I maun gar ye un’erstan’ me. There’s things whiles, 
Sandy Graham, ’at ’s no easy to speyk aboot — but I hae nae 
feelin’s, an" we ’ll a’ be deid or lang, an’ that’s a comfort. Man 
’at ye are, ye ’re the only human bein’ I wad open my moo’ till 
aboot this maitter, an’ that’s ’cause ye lo’e the memory o’ my 
puir lassie, Grizell Cam’ell.” 

“ It is not her memory, it is herself I love,” said the school- 
master with trembling voice. “ Tell me what you please : you 
may trust me.” 

“ Gien I needit you to tell me that* I wad trust ye as I wad 
the black dog wi’ butter ! — Hearken, Sandy Graham.” 

The result of her communication and their following confer- 
ence was, that she returned about midnight with a journey before 
her, the object of which was to place the letters in the safe keep- 
ing of a lawyer friend in the neighbouring county town. 

Long before she reached home, Mrs Catanach had left — not 
without communication with her ally, in spite of a certain precau- 
tion adopted by her mistress, the first thing the latter did when 
she entered being to take the key of the cellar stairs from her 
pocket, and release Jean, who issued crest-fallen and miserable, 
and was sternly dismissed to bed. The next day, however, for 
reasons of her own, Miss Horn permitted her to resume her 
duties about the house without remark, as if nothing had hap- 
pened serious enough to render further measures necessary. 


THE SACRAMENT. 


37i 


CHAPTER LX. 

THE SACRAMENT. 

Abandoning all hei remaining effects to Jean’s curiosity, if in- 
deed it were no worse demon that possessed her, Miss Horn, 
carrying a large reticule, betook herself to the Lossie Arms, to 
await the arrival of the mail coach from the west, on which she 
was pretty sure of a vacant seat. 

It was a still, frosty, finger-pinching dawn, and the rime lay 
thick wherever it could lie ; but Miss Horn’s red nose was carried 
in front of her in a manner that suggested nothing but defiance 
to the fiercest attacks of cold. Declining the offered shelter of 
the landlady’s parlour, she planted herself on the steps of the inn, 
and there stood until the sound of the guard’s horn came crack- 
ling through the frosty air, heralding the apparition of a flaming 
chariot, fit for the sun-god himself, who was now lifting his red 
radiance above the horizon. Having none inside, the guard 
gallantly offered his one lady-passenger a place in the heart of his 
vehicle, but she declined the attention — to him, on the ground 
of preferring the outside, — for herself, on the ground of uncer- 
tainty whether he had a right to bestow the privilege. But there 
was such a fire in her heart that no frost could chill her ; such a 
bright bow in her west, that the sun now rising in the world’s 
east was but a reflex of its splendour. True, the cloud against 
which it glowed was very dark with by-gone wrong and suffering, 
but so much the more brilliant seemed the hope now arching the 
entrance of the future. Still, although she never felt the cold, 
and the journey was but of a few miles, it seemed long and 
wearisome to her active spirit, which would gladly have sent her 
tall person striding along, to relieve both by the discharge of the 
excessive generation of muscle-working electricity. 

At length the coach drove into the town, and stopped at the 
Duff Arms. Miss Horn descended, straightened her long back 
with some difficulty, shook her feet, loosened her knees, and 
after a douceur to the guard more liberal than was customary, in 
acknowledgment of the kindness she had been unable to accept, 
inarched off with the stride of a grenadier to find her lawyer. 

Their interview did not relieve her of much of the time, which 
now hung upon her like a cloak of lead, and the earliness of the 
hour would not have deterred her from at once commencing a 
round of visits to the friends she had in the place ; but the gates 


372 


MALCOLM. 


of the lovely environs of Fife House stood open, and although 
there were no flowers now, and the trees were leafless, waiting in 
poverty and patience for their coming riches, they drew her with 
the offer of a plentiful loneliness and room. She accepted it, 
entered, and for two hours wandered about their woods and 
walks. 

Entering with her the well known domain, the thought meets 
me : what would be the effect on us men of such a periodical 
alternation between nothing and abundance as these woods 
undergo ? Perhaps in the endless variety of worlds there may 
be one in which that is among the means whereby its dwellers 
are saved from self and lifted into life ; a world in which during 
the one half of the year they walk in state, in splendour, in 
bounty, and during the other are plunged in penury and labour. 

Such speculations were not in Miss Horn’s way ; but she was 
better than the loftiest of speculations, and we will follow her. 
By-and-by she came out of the woods, and found herself on the 
banks of the Wan Water, a broad, fine river, here talking in 
wide-rippled innocence from bank to bank, there lying silent and 
motionless and gloomy, as if all the secrets of the drowned since 
the creation of the world lay dim-floating in its shadowy bosom. 
In great sweeps it sought the ocean, and the trees stood back 
from its borders, leaving a broad margin of grass between, as if 
the better to see it go. Just outside the grounds and before 
reaching the sea, it passed under a long bridge of many arches 
— then, trees and grass and flowers and all greenery left behind, 
rushed through a waste of storm-heaped pebbles into the world- 
water. Miss Horn followed it out of the grounds and on to the 
beach. 

Here its channel was constantly changing. Even while she 
stood gazing at its rapid rush, its bank of peebles and sand fell 
almost from under her feet. But her thoughts were so busy that 
she scarcely observed even/what she saw, and hence it was not 
strange that she should be unaware of having been followed and 
watched all the way. Now from behind a tree, now from a cor- 
ner of the mausoleum, now from behind a rock, now over the 
parapet of the bridge, the mad laird had watched her. From a 
heap of shingle on the opposite side of the Wan Water, he was 
watching her now. Again and again he had made a sudden 
movement as if to run and accost her, but had always drawn back 
again and concealed himself more carefully than before. 

At length she turned in the direction of the town. It was a 
quaint old place — a royal burgh for five centuries, with street* 
irregular and houses of much individuality. Most of the lattet 


THE SACRAMENT. 


373 


were humble in appearance, bare and hard in form, and gray in 
^ue ; but there were curious comers, low archways, uncompro- 
mising gables, some with corbel-steps — now and then an outside 
stair, a delicious little dormer window, or a gothic doorway, 
sometimes with a bit of carving over it. 

With the bent head of the climber, Miss Horn was walking up 
a certain street, called from its precipitousness the Strait, that is 
Difficult, Path — an absolute Hill of Difficulty, when she was 
accosted by an elderly man, who stood in the doorway of one of 
the houses. 

“ Ken ye wha ’s yon watchin* ye frae the tap o’ the brae, 
mem ?” he said. 

Miss Horn looked up : there was no one there. 

“ That ’s it ! he’s awa’ again ! That’s the w’y he *s been duin’ 
this last hoor, at least, to my knowledge. I saw him watchin’ 
ilka mov’ ye made, mem, a’ the time ye was doon upo’ the shore 
— an’ there he is noo, or was a meenute ago, at the heid o' the 
brae, glowerin’ the een oot o’ ’s heid at ye, mem 1” 

“ Div ye ken him?” asked Miss Horn. 

“ No, mem — ’cep’ by sicht o’ ee ; he hasna been lang aboot 
the toon. Some fowk sae he’s dementit ; but he’s unco quaiet, 
speyks to nobody, an’ gien onybody speyk to him, jist rins. Cud 
he be kennin’ you, no ? Ye ’re a stranger here, mem.” 

“No sic a stranger, John!” returned Miss Horn, calling the 
man by his name, for she recognized him as the beadle of the 
parish church. “ What ’s the body like?” 

“ A puir, wee, hump-backit cratur, wi’ the face o’ a gentleman.” 

“ I ken him weel,” said Miss Horn. “ He is a gentleman — 
gien ever God made ane. But he ’s sair affiickit. Whaur does 
he lie at nicht — can ye tell me !” 

*'I ken naething aboot him, mem, by what comes o’ seein* 
him sic like ’s the day, an’ ance teetin (peering) in at the door o’ 
the kirk. I wad hae weised him till a seat, but the moment I 
luikit at him, awa’ he ran. He ’s unco cheenged though, sin’ the 
first time I saw him.” 

Since he lost Phemy, fear had been slaying him. No one 
kne v where he slept ; but in the daytime he haunted the streets, 
judging them safer than the fields or woods. The moment any 
one accosted him, however, he fled like the wind. He had “ no 
art to find the mind’s construction in the face;” and not know- 
ing whom to trust, he distrusted all. Humanity was good in his 
eyes, but there was no man. The vision of Miss Horn was like 
the dayspring from on high to him ; with her near, the hosts of 
the Lord seemed to encamp around him ; but the one word he 


374 


MALCOLM. 


had heard her utter about his t>ack, had caused in him an invino 
ible repugnance to appearing before her, and hence it was that at 
a distance he had haunted her steps without nearer approach. 

There was indeed a change upon him ! His clothes hun j 
about him — not from their own ragged condition only, but als» 
from the state of skin and bone to which he was reduced, his 
hump showing like a great peg over which they had been care- 
lessly cast. Half the round of his eyes stood out from his face, 
whose pallor betokened the ever-recurring rush of the faintly 
sallying troops back to the citadel of the heart. He had always 
been ready to run, but now he looked as if nothing but weakness 
and weariness kept him from running always. Miss Horn had 
presently an opportunity of marking the sad alteration. 

For ere she reached the head of the Strait Path, she heard 
sounds as of boys at play, and coming out on the level of the 
High Street, saw a crowd, mostly of little boys, in the angle made 
by a garden wall with a house whose gable stood half-way across 
the pavement. It being Saturday, they had just left school in all 
the exuberance of spirits to which a half-holiday gives occasion. 
In most of them the animal nature was, for the time at least, far 
wider awake than the human, and their proclivity towards the 
sport of the persecutor was strong. To them any living thing 
that looked at once odd and helpless was an outlaw — a creature 
to be tormented, or at best hunted beyond the visible world. A 
meagre cat, an over-fed pet spaniel, a ditchless frog, a horse 
whose days hung over the verge of the knacker’s yard — each was 
theirs in virtue of the amusement latent in it, which it was their 
business to draw out ; but of all such property an idiot would 
yield the most, and a hunchback idiot, such as was the laird in their 
eyes, was absolutely invaluable — beyond comparison the best 
game in the known universe. When he left Portlossie, the la ; rd 
knew pretty well what risks he ran, although he preferred even 
them to the dangers he hoped by his flight to avoid. It was he 
whom the crowd in question surrounded. 

They had begun by rough teasing, to which he had responded 
with smiles — a result which did not at all gratify them, their chief 
object being to enrage him. They had therefore proceeded to 
small torments, and were ready to go on to worse, their object 
being with the laird hard to compass. Unhappily, there were 
amongst them two or three bigger boys. 

The moment Miss Horn descried what they were about, she 
rushed into the midst of them, like a long bolt from a catapult, 
and scattering them right and left from their victim, turned and 
stood in front of him, regarding his persecutors with defiance in 


THE SACRAMENT. 


375 


her flaming eye* and vengance in her indignant nose. But there 
was about Miss Horn herself enough of the peculiar to mark her 
also, to the superficial observer, as the natural prey of boys ; 
and the moment the first billow of consternation had passed and 
sunk, beginning to regard her as she stood, the vain imagination 
awoke in these young lords of misrule. They commenced their 
attack upon her by resuming it upon her proteg6. She spread 
out her skirts, far from voluminous, to protect him as he cowered 
behind them, and so long as she was successful in shielding him, 
her wrath smouldered — but powerfully. At length one of the 
bigger boys, creeping slyly up behind the front row of smaller 
ones, succeeded in poking a piece of iron rod past her, and draw- 
ing a cry from the laird. Out blazed the lurking flame. The 
boy had risen, and was now attempting to prosecute like an ape, 
what he had commenced like a snake. Inspired by the God o: 
armies — the Lord of hosts, she rushed upon him, and struck him 
into the gutter. He fell in the very spot where he had found his 
weapon, and there he lay. The Christian Amazon turned to the 
laird ; overflowing with compassion she stooped and kissed his 
forehead, then took him by the hand to lead him away. But 
most of the enemy had gathered around their fallen comrade, and 
seized with some anxiety as to his condition, Miss Horn 
approached the group: the instant she turned towards it, the 
laird snatched his hand from hers, darted away like a hunting 
spider, and shot down the Strait Path to the low street : by the 
time his protectress had looked over the heads of the group, seen 
that the young miscreant was not seriously injured, and requested 
him to take that for meddling with a helpless innocent, the object 
of her solicitude, whom she supposed standing behind her, was 
nowhere to be seen. Twenty voices, now obsequious, were 
lifted to acquaint her with the direction in which he had gone ; 
but it was vain to attempt following him, and she pursued her 
way, somewhat sore at his want of faith in her, to the house of a 
certain relative, a dressmaker, whom she visited as often as she 
went to Duff Harbour. 

Now Miss Forsyth was one of a small sect of worshippers which 
had, not many years before, built a chapel in the town — a quiet, 
sober, devout company, differing from their neighbours in nothing 
deeply touching the welfare of humanity. Their chief fault was, 
that, attributing to comparative trifles a hugely disproportionate 
value, they would tear the garment in pieces rather than yield 
their notion of the right way of wrapping it together. 

It so happened that, the next morning, a minister famous in 
the community was to preach to them, on which ground Miss 


MALCOLM. 


37 * 

Forsyth persuaded her relative to stop over the Sunday, and go 
with her to their chapel. Bethinking herself next that her minister 
had no sermon to prepare, she took Miss Horn to call upon 
him. 

Mr Bigg was one of those men whose faculty is always under- 
estimated by their acquaintances and over-estimated by their 
friends ; to overvalue him was impossible. He was not merely of 
the salt of the earth, but of the leaven of the kingdom, contribut- 
ing more to the true life of the world than many a thousand far 
more widely-known and honoured. Such as this man are the 
chief springs of thought, feeling, inquiry, action, in their neigh- 
bourhood ; they radiate help and breathe comfort ; they reprove, 
they counsel, they sympathize ; in a word, they are doorkeepers 
of the house of God. Constantly upon its threshold, and every 
moment pushing the door to peep in, they let out radiance enough 
to keep the hearts of men believing in the light. They make an 
atmosphere about them in which spiritual things can thrive, and 
out of their school often come men who do greater things, better 
they cannot do, than they. 

Although a separatist as to externals, he was in heart a most 
catholic man — would have found himself far too catholic for the 
community over which he presided, had its members been 
capable of understanding him. Indeed, he had with many, 
although such was the force of his character that no one dared a 
word to that effect in his hearing, the reputation of being lax in 
his ideas of what constituted a saving faith ; and most of the sect 
being very narrow-minded, if not small-hearted, in their limita- 
tions of the company fitly partaking of the last supper of our 
Lord — requiring proof of intellectual accord with themselves as 
to the how and why of many things, especially in regard of what 
they called the plan of salvation, he was generally judged to be 
misled by the deceitful kindliness of the depraved human heart 
in requiring as the ground of communion only such an uplook to 
Jesus as, when on earth, Jesus himself had responded to with 
healing. He was larger-hearted, and therefore larger-minded, 
than his people. 

In the course of their conversation, Miss Forsyth recounted, 
with some humour, her visitor’s prowess on behalf of the laird- 
much to honest Mr Bigg’s delight. 

“What ither cud I du ? ” said Miss Horn apologetically. 
“But I doobt I strack ower sair. Maybe ye wadna objec’, 
sir, to gang and speir efter the laddie, an’ gie him some guid 
advice ? ” 

“I’ll do that,” returned Mr Bigg. — “Are we to have the 


THE SACRAMENT. 


3 77 

pleasure of your company in our conventicle to-morrow?” he 
added, after a little pause. “ Dr Blare is going to preach.” 

“ Will ye hae me, Mr Bigg ? ” 

“ Most willingly, ma’am ; and we ’ll be still better pleased if 
you ’ll sit down with us to the Lord’s table afterwards.’' 

“ I gang to the perris-kirk, ye ken,” said Miss Horn, supposing 
the good man unaware of the fact. 

“ Oh ! I know that, ma’am. But don’t you think, as we shall, 
I trust, sit down together to his heavenly supper, it would be a 
good preparation to sit down together, once at least, to his earthly 
supper first?” 

“ I didna ken 'at ye wad hae ony but yer ain fowk ! I hae aften 
thoucht mysel’, it was jist the ae thing ony Christi-an sud be ready 
to du wi’ ony ither. Is ’t a new thing wi’ ye to haud open hoose 
this gait, sir, — gien I may tak the leeberty to speir ? ” 

“ We don’t exactly keep open house. We wouldn’t like to 
have any one with us who would count it poor fare. But still 
less would we like to exclude one of the Lord’s friends. If that 
is a new thing, it ought to be an old one. — You believe in Jesus 
Christ — don’t you, ma’am ? ” 

“ I dinna ken whether I believe in him as ye wad ca’ believin' 
or no — there’s sic a heap o’ things broucht to the fore noo-a-days 
'at I canna richtly say I un’erstan’. But as he dee’d for me, I 
wad dee for him. Raither nor say I didna ken him, I wad hing 
aside him. Peter an’ a’, I canna say less.” 

• Mr Bigg’s eyes began to smart, and he turned away his head. 

“ Gien that ’ll du wi’ ye,” Miss Horn went on, “ an’ ye mean 
nae desertion o’ the kirk o’ my father an’ his fathers afore him, I 
wad willin’ly partak wi’ ye.” 

“ You’ll be welcome, Miss Horn — as welcome, as any of my 
owm flock.” 

“Weel, noo, that I ca’ Christi-an,” said Miss Horn, rising. 
“ An’ ’deed I cud wuss,” she added, “ ’at in oor ain kirk we had 
mair opportunity, for ance i’ the twalmonth ’s no verra aften to 
tak up the thouchts ’at belang to the holy ord’nance.” 

The next day, after a powerful sermon from a man who, 
although in high esteem, was not for moral worth or heavenly 
insight to be compared with him whose place he took, they pro- 
ceeded to the celebration of the Lord’s supper, after the fashion 
of that portion of the church universal. 

The communicants sat in several long pews facing the com- 
munion table, which was at the foot of the pulpit After the 
reading of St Paul’s account of the institution of the Lord’s 
Supper, accompanied by prayers and addresses, the deacons 


37 « 


MALCOLM. 


carried the bread to the people, handing a slice to the first in 
each pew ; each person in turn broke off a portion, and handed 
what remained to the next : thus they divided it among them- 
selves. 

It so happened that, in moving up to the communion seats. 
Miss Forsyth and Miss Horn were the last to enter one of them, 
and Miss Horn, very needlessly insisting on her custom of having 
her more capable ear towards her friend, occupied the place 
next the passage. 

The service had hardly commenced, when she caught sight of 
the face of the mad laird peeping in at the door, which was in 
the side of the building, near where she sat. Their eyes met 
With a half-repentant, half-apologetic look, he crept in, and, 
apparently to get as near his protectress as he could, sat down 
in the entrance of an empty pew, just opposite the one in 
which she was seated, on the other side of the narrow passage. 
His presence attracted little notice, for it was quite usual for 
individuals of the congregation who were not members of the 
church to linger on the outskirts of the company as spectators. 

By the time the piece of bread reached Miss Horn from the 
other end, it was but a fragment. She broke it in two, and, 
reserving one part for herself, in place of handing the remnant to 
the deacon who stood ready to take it, stretched her arm across 
the passage, and gave it to Mr Stewart, who had been watching 
the proceedings intently. He received it from her hand, bent 
his head over it devoutly, and ate it, unconscious of the 
scandalized looks of the deacon, who knew nothing of the 
miserable object thus accepting rather than claiming a share in 
the common hope of men. 

When the cup followed, the deacon was on the alert, ready to 
take it at once from the hands of Miss Horn. But as it left her 
lips she rose, grasping it in both hands, and with the dignity of a 
messenger of the Most High, before which the deacon drew back, 
bore it to the laird, and having made him drink the little that 
was left, yielded it to the conservator of holy privileges, with the 
words : 

“ Hoots, man ! the puir body never had a taste o’ the balm o* 
Gilead in a’ ’s persecutit life afore ! ” 

The liberality of Mr Bigg had not been lost upon her : freely 
she had received — freely she gave. What was good must, 
because it was good, be divided with her neighbour. It was a 
lawless act 

As soon as the benediction was spoken, the laird slipped away, 
but as he left the seat, Miss Horn heard him murmur — “Eli, the 


MISS HORN AND THE PIPER. 


379 


bonny man ! the bonny man ! ” He could hardly have meant the 
deacon. He might have meant Mr Bigg, who had concluded 
the observance with a simple and loving exhortation. 


CHAPTER LXI. 

MISS HORN AND THE PIPER. 

When Miss Horn bethought herself that night, in prospect of 
returning home the next day, that she had been twice in the 
company of the laird and had not even thought of asking him 
about Phemy, she reproached herself not a little ; and it was 
with shame that she set out, immediately on her arrival, to tell 
Malcolm that she had seen him. No one at the House being 
able to inform her where he was at the moment, she went on to 
Duncan’s cottage. There she found the piper, who could not 
tell her where his boy was, but gave her a hearty welcome, and 
offered her a cup of tea, which, as it was now late in the afternoon, 
Miss Horn gladly accepted. As he bustled about to prepare it, 
refusing all assistance from his guest, he began to open his mind 
to her on a subject much in his thoughts — namely, Malcolm’s 
inexplicable aversion to Mrs Stewart. 

“ Ta nem of Stewart will pe a nople worrt, mem,” he said. 

“ It’s guid eneuch to ken a body by,” answered Miss Horn. 

“If ta poy will pe a Stewart,” he went on, heedless of the 
indifference of her remark, “ who’ll pe knowing put he’ll may pe 
of ta plood royal ! ” 

“ There didna leuk to be muckle royalty aboot auld John, 
honest man, wha cudna rule a wife, though he had but ane!” 
returned Miss Horn. 

“ If you ’ll please, mem, ton’t you’ll pe too sherp on ta poor 
man whose wife will not pe ta coot wife. If ta wife will pe ta 
paad wife, she will pe ta paad wife however, and ta poor man 
will pe hafing ta paad wife and ta paad plame of it too, and tat 
will pe more as ’ll pe fair, mem.” 

“ ’Deed ye never said a truer word, Maister MacPhail ! n 
assented Miss Horn. “ It’s a mercy ’at a lone wuman like me, 
wha has a maisterfu’ temper o’ her ain, an’ nae feelin’s, was never 
putten to the temptation o’ occkypeein’ sic a perilous position. 
I doobt gien auld John had been merried upo’ me, I micht hae 


3 &> 


MALCOLM. 


Dutten on the wrang claes some momin mysel*, an’ may be had 

i)T gettin’ o’ them aff again.” 

The old man was silent, and Miss Horn resumed the main 
subject of their conversation. 

“ But though he michtna objec’ till a father ’at he wasna jiV 
Hector or Golia’ o’ Gath,” she said, “ ye canna wonner ’at the 
yoong laad no carin’ to hae sic a mither.” 

“ And what would pe ta harm with ta mother? Will she no«. 
pe a coot woman, and a coot letty more to ta bargain ? ” 

“ Ye ken what fowk says till her guideship o’ her son !” 

“Yes ; put tat will pe ta lies of ta peoples. Ta peoples wass 
always telling lies.” 

“ Weel, allooin*, it ’s a peetyye sudna ken, supposin’ him to be 
hers, hoo sma’ fowk hauds the chance o’ his bein’ a Stewart, for 
a’ that ! ” 

“ She ’ll not pe comprestanding you,” said Duncan, bewildered. 

“He’s a wise son ’at kens his ain faither!” remarked Miss 
Horn, with more point than originality. “ The leddy never bore 
the best o’ characters, as far ’s my memory taks me, — an’ that ’s 
back afore John an' her was merried ony gait. Na, na; John 
Stewart never took a dwaum ’cause Ma’colm MacPhail was upo’ 
the ro’d.” 

Miss Horn was sufficiently enigmatical ; but her meaning had 
at length, more through his own reflection than her exposition, 
dawned upon Duncan. He leaped up with a Gaelic explosion of 
concentrated force, and cried, 

“Ta woman is not pe no mothers to Tuncan’s poy !” 

“ Huly, huly, Mr MacPhail!” interposed Miss Horn, with 
good-natured revenge ; “ it may be naething but fowk’s lees, ye 
ken.” 

“ Ta woman tat ta peoples will pe telling lies of her, wass not 
pe ta mother of her poy Malcolm. Why tidn’t ta poy tell her U 
why tat he wouldn’t pe hafing her ? ” 

“Ye wadna hae him spread an ill report o’ his ain mither?” 

4 “ Put she ’ll not pe his mother, and you ’ll not pelieve it, mem.” 

“ Ye canna priv that — you nor him aither.” 

“ It will pe more as would kill her poy to haf a woman like tat 
to ta mother of him.” 

“ It wad be near han’ as ill ’s haein’ her for a wife,” assented 
Miss Horn ; “ but no freely ( quite ),” she added. 

The old man sought the door, as if for a breath of air ; but as 
he went, he blundered, and felt about as if he had just been struck 
blind : ordinarily he walked in his own house at least, as if he saw 
every inch of the way. Presently he returned and resumed his seat 


MISS HORN AND THE PIPER, 381 

“Wes the bairn laid mither-nakit intill yer han’s, Maister 
MacPhail ? ” asked Miss Horn, who had been meditating. 

“ Och ! no ; he wass his clo’es on,” answered Duncan. 

“ Hae ye ony o’ them left ? ” she asked again. 

“ Inteet not,” answered Duncan. “ Yes, inteet not.” 

“Ye lay at the Salmon, didna ye?” 

w Yes, mem, and they wass coot to her.” 

“ Wha drest the bairn till ye ? ” 

“ Och ! she ’ll trest him herself,” said Duncan, still jealous of 
the women who had nursed the child. 

“But no aye?” suggested Miss Horn. 

“ Mistress Partan will pe toing a coot teal of tressing him, 
sometimes. Mistress Partan is a coot ’oman when she ’ll pe coot 
« — fery coot when she ’ll be coot.” 

Here Malcolm entered, and Miss Horn told him what she had 
seen of the laird, and gathered concerning him. 

“ That luiks ill for Phemy,” remarked Malcolm, when she had 
described his forlorn condition. “ She canna be wi’ ’im, or he 
wadna be like that. Hae ye onything by w’y o’ coonsel, mem?” 

“ I wad coonsel a word wi’ the laird himsel’ — gien ’t be to be 
gotten. He mayna ken what ’s happent her, but he may tell ye 
the last he saw o’ her, an’ that maun be mair nor ye ken.” 

“ He ’s taen sic a doobt o’ me ’at I ’m feart it ’ll be hard to 
come at him, an’ still harder to came at speech o’ ’im, for whan 
he ’s frichtit he can hardly muv ’s jawbane — no to say speyk. I 
maun try though and du my best Ye think he’s lurkin’ aboot 
Fife Hoose, div ye, mem ? ’’ 

“ He ’s been seen there-awa’ this while — aff an’ on.” 

“ Weel, I s’ jist gang an’ put on my fisher-claes, an set oot at 
ance. I maun haud ower to Scaurnose first, though, to lat them 
ken ’at he ’s been gotten sicht o*. It ’ll be but sma’ comfort, I 
doobt.” 

“ Malcolm, my son,” interjected Duncan, who had been 
watching for the conversation to afford him an opening, “if you’ll 
pe meeting any one will caal you ta son of tat woman, gif him a 
coot plowln ta face, for you ’ll pe no son of hers, efen if she’ll 
proof it — no more as hersel. If you ’ll pe her son, old Tuncan 
will pe tisown you for efer, and efermore, amen.” 

“ What’s broucht you to this, daddie ? ” asked Malcolm, who, 
ill as he liked the least allusion to the matter, could not help 
feeling curious, and indeed almost amused. 

“ Nefer you mind. Miss Horn will pe hafing coot reasons tat 
Mistress Stewart ’ll not can pe your mother.” 

Malcolm turned to Miss Horn. 


3*2 


MALCOLM. 


“ I Ve said naething to Maister MacPhai! but what I Ve said 
mair nor ance to yersel’, laddie,” she replied to the eager 
questioning of his eyes. “ Gang yer wa’s. The trowth maun cow 
the lee i’ the lang rin. Aff wi’ ye to Blue Peter ! ” 

When Malcolm reached Scaurnose he found Phemy’s parents 
in a sad state. Joseph had returned that morning from a fruitless 
search in a'fresh direction, and reiterated disappointment seemed 
to have at length overcome Annie’s endurance, for she had taken 
to her bed. Joseph was sitting before the fire on a three-legged 
stool rocking himself to and fro in a dull agony. When he heard 
Malcolm’s voice, he jumped to his feet, and a flash of hope shot 
from his eyes : but when he had heard all, he sat down again 
without a word, and began rocking himself as before. 

Mrs Mair was lying in the darkened closet, where, the door 
being partly open, she had been listening with all her might, and 
was now weeping afresh. Joseph was the first to speak: still 
rocking himself with hopeless oscillation, he said, in a strange 
muffled tone which seemed to come from somewhere else — 

“ Gien I kent she was weel deid I wadna care. It ’s no like a 
father to be sittin’ here, but whaur ’ll I gang neist ? The wife 
thinks I micht be duin’ something : I kenna what to du. This 
last news is waur nor nane. I hae maist nae faith left Ma’colm, 
man !” — and with a bitter cry he started to his feet — “I ’maist 
dinna believe there ’s a God ava’. It disna luik like it — dis’t noo ?” 

There came an answering cry from the closet ; Annie rushed 
out, half-un dressed, and threw her arms about her husband. 

“Joseph! Joseph!” she said, in a voice hard with agony — 
almost more dreadful than a scream — “ gien ye speyk like that, 
ye ’ll drive me mad. Lat the lassie gang, but lea’ me my God ! ” 

Joseph pushed her gently away, turned from her, fell on his 
knees, and moaned out — 

“ O God, gien thoo has her, we s’ neither greit nor grum’le : 
but dinna tak the faith frae ’s.” 

He remained on his knees silent, with his head against the 
chimney-jamb. His wife crept away to her closet. 

“ Peter,” said Malcolm, “ I’m gaein’ aff the nicht to luik for 
the laird, and see gien he can tell ’s onything aboot her : wadna 
ye better come wi’ me ? ” 

To the heart of the father it was as the hope of the resurrec- 
tion of the world. The same moment he was on his feet and 
taking down his bonnet ; the next he disappeared in the closet, 
and Malcolm heard the tinkling of the money in the lidless tea- 
pot ; then out he came with a tear on his lace and a glimmer in 
his eyes. 


THE CUTTLE-FISH AND THE CRAB. 


383 


The sun was down, and a bone-piercing chill, incarnate in the 
vague mist that haunted the ground, assailed them as they 
left the cottage. The sea moaned drearily. A smoke seemed to 
ascend from the horizon half-way to the zenith, something too 
thin for cloud, too black for vapour ; above that the stars were 
beginning to shine. Joseph shivered and struck his hands 
against his shoulders. 

“ Care 's cauldrife,” he said, and strode on. 

Almost in silence they walked together to the county town, 
put up at a little inn near the river, and at once began to make 
inquiries. Not a few persons had seen the laird at different 
times, but none knew where he slept or chiefly haunted. There 
was nothing for it but to set out in the morning, and stray 
hither and thither, on the chance of somewhere finding him. 


CHAPTER LXII. 

THE CUTTLE FISH AND THE CRAB. 

Although the better portion of the original assembly had for- 
saken the Baillies Barn, there was still a regular gathering in it 
as before, and if possible even a greater manifestation of zeal for 
the conversion of sinners. True, it might not be clear to an 
outsider that they always made a difference between being con- 
verted and joining their company, so ready were they to mix up 
the two in their utterances ; and the results of what they counted 
conversion were sometimes such as the opponents of their pro- 
ceedings would have had them : the arrogant became yet more 
arrogant, and the greedy more greedy; the tongues of the 
talkative went yet faster, and the gad-abouts were yet seldomer 
at home ; while there was such a superabundance of private 
judgment that it overflowed the cisterns of their own concerns, 
and* invaded the walled gardens of other people's motives : yet, 
notwithstanding, the good people got good, if the other sort got 
evil ; for the meek shall inherit the earth, even when the priest 
ascends the throne of Augustus. No worst thing ever done in 
the name of Christianity, no vilest corruption of the Church, can 
destroy the eternal fact that the core of it is in the heart of Jesus. 
Branches innumerable may have to be lopped off and cast into 
the fire, yet the word lam the vine remaineth. 

The ’demagogues had gloried in the expulsion of such men as 


MALCOLM. 


3S4 

J eames Gentle and Blue Peter, and were soon rejoiced by the 
return of Bow-o’-meal — after a season of backsliding to the flesh- 
pots of Egypt, as they called the services of the parish church — 
to the bosom of the Barn, where he soon was again one of the 
chief amongst them. Meantime the circles of their emanating 
influence continued to spread, until at length they reached the 
lower classes of the upper town, of whom a few began to go to 
Barn. Amongst them, for reasons best known to herself, though 
they might be surmised by such as really knew her, was Mrs 
Catanach. I do not know that she ever professed repentance 
and conversion, but for a while she attended pretty often. Pos- 
sibly business considerations had something to do with it 
Assuredly the young preacher, though he still continued to 
exhort, did so with failing strength, and it was plain to see that 
he was going rapidly : the exercise of the second of her twin 
callings might be required. She could not, however, have been 
drawn by any large expectations as to the honorarium. Still, 
she would gain what she prized even more — a position for the 
moment at the heart of affairs, with its excelling chances of hear- 
ing and overhearing. Never had lover of old books half the 
delight in fitting together a rare volume from scattered portions 
picked up in his travels, that Mrs Catanach found in vitalizing 
stray remarks, arranging odds and ends of news, and cementing 
the many fragments, with the help of the babblings of gossip, 
into a plausible whole ; intellectually considered, her special pur- 
suit was inasmuch the nobler as the faculties it brought into 
exercise were more delicate and various ; and if her devotion to 
the minutiae of biography had no high end in view, it never 
caused her to lose sight of what ends she had, by involving her 
in opinions, prejudices, or disputes : however she might break 
out at times, her general policy was to avoid quarrelling. There 
was a strong natural antagonism between her and the Partaness, 
but she had never shown the least dislike to her, and that 
although Mrs Findlay had never lost an opportunity of manifesting 
hers to the midwife. Indeed, having gained a pretext by her 
ministrations to Lizzy when overcome by the suggestions of the 
dog-sermon, Mrs Catanach had assayed an approach to her 
mother, and not without success. After the discovery of the 
physical cause of Lizzy’s ailment, however, Mrs Findlay had 
sought, by might of rude resolve, to break loose from the 
encroaching acquaintanceship, but had found, as yet, that the 
hard-shelled crab was not a match for the glutinous cuttlefish. 

On the evening of the Sunday following the events related in 
the last chapter, Mrs Catanach had, not without difficulty, per- 


THE CUTTLE-FISH AND THE CRAB . 


3S5 

stmded Mrs Findlay to accompany her to the Baillies’ Bam, with 
the promise of a wonderful sermon from a new preacher — a 
ploughman on an inland farm. That she had an object in desir- 
ing her company that night, may seem probable from the conver- 
sation which arose as they plodded their way thither along the 
sands. 

“I h’ard a queer tale aboot Meg Horn at Duff Harbour 
the ither day,” said the midwife, speaking thus disrespectfully 
both to ease her own heart and to call forth the feelings of her 
companion, who also, she knew, disliked Miss Horn. 

“ Ay ! an’ what micht that be ? ” 

“But she’s maybe a freen’ o’ yours, Mrs Findlay? Some 
fowk likes her, though I canna say I’m ane o’ them.” 

“ Freen’ o’ mine ! ” exclaimed the Partaness. “ We gree like 
twa bills {bulls) i’ the same park ! ” 

“ I wadna wonner ! — for they tellt me ’at saw her fechtin’ i’ the 
High Street wi’ a muckle loon, near-han’ as big ’s hersel” ! an’ 
haith, but Meg had the best o’ ’t, an’ dang him intil the gutter, 
an’ maist fellt him ! An’ that ’s Meg Horn ! ” 

“ She had been at the drink ! But I never h’ard it laid till 
her afore.” 

“ Didna ye than ? Weel, I’m no sayin’ onything — that’s what 
I h’ard.” 

“ Ow, it’s like eneuch ! She was bulliraggin’ at me nae langer 
ago nor thestreen ; but I doobt I sent her awa’ wi’ a flech {flea ) 
in her lug ! ” 

“ Whaten a craw had she to pluck wi’ you, no ? ” 

“ Ow fegs ! ye wad hae ta’en her for a thief-catcher, and me 
for the thief! She wad threpe (insist) ’at I bude to hae keepit 
some o’ the duds ’at happit Ma’colm MacPhail the reprobat, 
whan first he cam to the Seaton— a puir serai chin’ brat, as reid 
’s a bilet lobster. Wae ’s me ’at ever he was creatit ! It jist 
drives me horn-daft to think ’at ever he got the breast o’ me. 
’At he sud sair {serve) me sae ! But I s’ hae a grip o’ ’im yet, 
or my name ’s no — what they ca’ me.” 

“ It ’s the w’y o’ the warl’, Mistress Findlay. . What cud ye 
expec’ o’ ane bom in sin an’ broucht furth in ineequity ? ” — a 
stock phrase of Mrs Catanach’s, glancing at her profession, and 
embracing nearly the whole of her belief. 

“ It ’s a true word. The mair ’s the peety he sud hae hed the 
milk o’ an honest wuman upo’ the tap o’ that ! ” 

“ But what cud Wie auld runt be efter? What was /for business 
wi’ ’t? She never did onything for the bairn.” 

“ Na, no she / She never had the chance, guid or ill— Ow ! 


386 


MALCOLM. 


doobtless it wad be anent what they ca’ the eedenlryfeein* o* *ira 
to the leddy o’ Gersefell. She had sent her. She micht hae 
waled ( chosen ) a mair welcome messenger, an’ sent her a better 
eeran ! But she made little o’ me.” 

“ Ye had naething o’ the kin’, I s’ wad.” 

“Never a threid. There 7vas a twal-hunner shift upo* the 
bairn, rowt roon ’im like deid-claes : — gien ’t had been but the 
Lord’s wull ! It gart me wonner at the time, for that wasna hoo 
a bairn ’at had been caret for sud be cled.” 

“ Was there name or mark upo’ ’t ? ” asked cuttlefish. 

“ Nane ; there was but the place whaur the reid ingrain had 
been pykit oot,” answered crab. 

“ An what cam o’ the shift ?” 

“Ow, I jist made it doon for a bit sark to the bairn whan he 
grew to be rinnin’ aboot ’At ever I sud hae ta’en steik in claith 
for sic a deil’s buckie ! To me ’at was a mither till ’im 1 The 
Lord haud me ohn gane mad whan I think o’ ’t ! ” 

“ An* syne for Lizzy ! — ■” began Mrs Catanach, prefacing fresh 
remark. 

But at her name the mother flew into such a rage that, fearful 
of scandal, seeing it was the Sabbath and they were on their 
way to public worship, her companion would have exerted all her 
powers of oiliest persuasion to appease her. But if there was one 
thing Mrs Catanach did not understand it was the heart of a 
mother. 

“ Hoots, Mistress Findlay ! Fowk ’ll hear ye. Haud yer 
tongue, I beg. She may dee i’ the strae for me. I s’ never put 
han’ to the savin’ o* her, or her bairn aither,” said the midwife, 
thinking thus to pacify her. 

Then, like the eruption following mere volcanic unrest, out 
brake the sore-hearted woman’s wrath. And now at length the 
crustacean was too much for the mollusk. She raved and scolded 
and abused Mrs Catanach, till at last she was driven to that final 
resource — the airs of an injured woman. She turned and walked 
back to the upper town, while Mrs Findlay went on to take what 
share she might in the worship of the congregation. 

Mrs Mair had that evening gone once more to the Baillies’ 
Barn in her husband’s absence ; for the words of unbelief he had 
uttered in the Job-like agony of his soul, had haunted the heart 
of his spouse, until she too felt as if she could hardly believe in 
a God. Few know what a poor thing their faith is till the trial 
comes. And in the weakness consequent on protracted suffering, 
she had begun to fancy that the loss of Phemy was a punishment 
upon them for deserting the conventicle. Als/O the schoolmaster 


THE CUTTLE-FISH AND THE CRAB . 


3*7 


wjis under an interdict, and that looked like a judgment too ! 
She must find some prop for the faith that was now shaking like 
a reed in the wind. So to the Baillies’ Barn she had gone. 

The tempest which had convulsed Mrs Findlay’s atmosphere, 
had swept its vapours with it as it passed away ; and when she 
entered the cavern, it was with an unwonted inclination to be 
friendly all round. As fate would have it, she unwittingly took 
her place by Mrs Mair, whom she had not seen since she gave 
Lizzy shelter. When she discovered who her neighbour was, she 
started away, and stared ; but she had had enough of quarrelling 
for the evening, and besides had not had time to bar her door 
against the angel Pity, who suddenly stepped across the thresh- 
hold of her heart with the sight of Mrs Mair’s pale thin cheeks 
and tear-reddened eyes. As suddenly, however, an indwelling 
demon of her own house, whose name was Envy, arose from the 
ashes of her hearth to meet the white-robed visitant : Phemy, 
poor little harmless thing, was safe enough ! who would harm a 
hair of her ? but Lizzy ! And this woman had taken in the 
fugitive from honest chastisement ! She would yet have sought 
another seat but the congregation rose to sing ; and her neigh- 
bour’s offer of the use in common of her psalm-book, was enough 
to quiet for the moment the gaseous brain of the turbulent woman. 
She accepted the kindness, and, the singing over, did not refuse 
to look on the same holy page with her daughter’s friend, while 
the ploughman read, with fitting simplicity, the parable of the Pro- 
digal Son. It touched something in both, but a different something 
in each. Strange to say, neither applied it to her own case, but 
each to her neighbour’s. As the reader uttered the words “ was 
lost and is found ” and ceased, each turned to the other with a 
whisper. Mrs Mair persisted in hers ; and the other, which was 
odd enough, yielded and listened. 

“ Wad the tale haud wi’ lassies as weel ’s laddies, Mistress 
Findlay, div ye think ? ” said Mrs Mair. 

“ Ow, surely ! ” was the response ; “ it maun du that. There 
*s no respec’ o’ persons wi’ him. There ’s no a doobt but yer 
Phemy ’ill come hame to ye safe an’ soon’.” 

“ I was thinkin’ aboot Lizzy,” said the other, a little astonished; 
and then the prayer began, and they had to be silent. 

The sermon of the ploughman was both dull and sensible, — 
an excellent variety where few of the sermons were either ; but 
it made little impression on Mrs Findlay or Mrs Mair. 

As they left the cave together in the crowd of issuing wor* 
shippers, Mrs Mair whispered again : 

“ i wad invete ye ower, but ye wad be wantin’ Liz.zy hame, an* 


338 


MALCOLM . 


I can ill spare the comfort o' her the noo,” she said, with the 
cunning of a dove. 

“ An’ what comes o’ met” rejoined Mrs Findlay, her claws 
out in a moment where her personal consequence was touched. 

“ Ye wadna surely tak her frae me a’ at ance ! ” pleaded Mrs 
Mair. “ Ye micht lat her bide — -jist till Phemy comes hamej 
an’ syne ” 

But there she broke down ; and the tempest of sobs that 
followed quite overcame the heart of Mrs Findlay. She was, in 
truth, a woman like another ; only being of the crustacean order, 
she had not yet swallowed her skeleton, as all of us have to do 
more or less, sooner or later, the idea of that scatfolding being 
that it should be out of sight. With the best commonplaces at 
her command she sought to comfort her companion ; walked 
with her to the foot of the red path ; found her much more to 
her mind than Mrs Catanach : seemed inclined to go with 
her all the way, but suddenly stopped, bade her good night, and 
left her. 


CHAPTER LXIXL 

MISS HORN AND LORD LOSSIE. 

Notwithstanding the quarrel, Mrs Catanach did not return 
without having gained something ; she had learned that Miss 
Horn had been foiled in what she had no doubt was an attempt 
to obtain proof that Malcolm was not the son of Mrs Stewart. 
The discovery was a grateful one ; for who could have told but 
there might be something in existence to connect him with 
another origin than she and Mrs Stewart would assign him ? 

The next day the marquis returned. Almost his first word 
was the desire that Malcolm should be sent to him. But nobody 
knew more than that he was missing ; whereupon he sent for 
Duncan. The old man explained his boy’s absence, and as soon 
as he was dismissed, took his way to the town, and called upon 
Miss Horn. In half an hour, the good lady started on foot for 
Duff Harbour. It was already growing dark ; but there was one 
feeling Miss Horn had certainly been created without, and that 
was fear . 

As she approached her destination, tramping eagerly along, in 
a half-cloudy, half star-lit night, with a damp east wind blowing 
cold from the German Ocean, she was startled by the swift rush 


MTSS HORN AND LORD LOSS/E . 


389 


of something dark across the road before her. It came out of a 
small wood on the left towards the sea, and bolted through a 
hedge on the right. 

“ Is that you, laird ? 9 she cried ; but there came no answer. 

She walked straight to the house of her lawyer-friend, and, 
after an hour’s rest, the same night set out again for Portlossie, 
which she reached in safety by her bed-time. 

Lord Lossie was very accessible. Like Shakspere’s Prince 
Hal, he was so much interested in the varieties of the outcome 
of human character, that he would not willingly lose a chance of 
seeing “ more man.” If the individual proved a bore, he would 
get rid of him without remorse ; if amusing, he would contrive 
to prolong the interview. There was a great deal of undeveloped 
humanity somewhere in his lordship, one of whose indications 
was this spectacular interest in his kind. As to their by-gone 
history, how they fared out of his sight, or what might become 
of them, he never gave a thought to anything of the kind — never 
felt the pull of one of the bonds of brotherhood, laughed at them 
the moment they were gone, or, if a woman’s story had touched 
him, wiped his eyes with an oath, and thought himself too good 
a fellow for this world. 

Since his retirement from the more indolent life of the metro- 
polis to the quieter and more active pursuits of the country, his 
character had bettered a little — inasmuch as it was a shade more 
accessible to spiritual influences; the hard soil had in a few 
places cracked a hair’s-breadth, and lay thus far open to the 
search of those sun-rays which, when they find the human germ, 
that is, the conscience, straightway begin to sting it into life. 
To this betterment the company of his daughter had chiefly con- 
tributed ; for, if she was little more developed in the right direc- 
tion than himself, she was far less developed in the wrong, and 
the play of affection between them was the divinest influence that 
could as yet be brought to bear upon either ; but certain circum- 
stances of late occurrence had had a share in it, occasioning a 
revival of old memories which had a considerably sobering effect 
upon him. 

As he sat at breakfast, about eleven o’clock on the morning 
after his return, one of his English servants entered with the 
message that a person, calling herself Miss Horn, and refusing to 
explain her business desired to see his lordship for a few minutes. 

“ Who is she ? ” asked the marquis. 

The man did not know. 

“ What is she like ? ” 

“An odd-looking old lady, my lord, and very oddly dressed.” 


390 


MALCOLM. 


“ Show her into the next room. I shall be with her directly." 

Finishing his cup of coffee and pea-fowl's egg with deliberation, 
while he tried his best to recall in what connection he could have 
heard the name before, the marquis at length sauntered into the 
morning room in his dressing-gown, with the Times of the day 
before yesterday, just arrived, in his hand. There st~od his 
visitor waiting for him, such as my reader knows her, black and 
gaunt and grim, in a bay window, whose light almost surrounded 
her, so that there was scarcely a shadow about her, and yet to 
the eyes of the marquis she seemed wrapped in shadows. 
Mysterious as some sybil, whose being held secrets the first 
whisper of which had turned her old, but made her immortal, 
she towered before him, with her eyes fixed upon him, and neither 
spoke nor moved. 

“To what am I indebted ?” began his lordship; but 

Miss Horn speedily interrupted his courtesy. 

“ Own to nae debt, my lord, till ye ken what it ’s for,” she 
said, without a tone or inflection to indicate a pleasantry. 

“ Good ! ” returned his lordship, and waited with a smile. 
She promised amusement, and he was ready for it — but it hardly 
came. 

“ Ken ye that han’ o’ wreet, my iord ? ” she inquired, sternly 
advancing a step, and holding out a scrap of paper at arm’s 
length, as if presenting a pistol. 

The marquis took it. In his countenance curiosity had 
mingled with the expectation. He glanced at it. A shadow 
swept over his face but vanished instantly : the mask of impervi- 
ous non-expression which a man of his breeding always knows 
how to assume, was already on his visage. 

“Where did you get this?” he said quietly, with just the 
slightest catch in his voice. 

“ I got it, my lord, whaur there's mair like it." 

“Show me them.” 

“ I hae shawn ye plenty for a swatch ( pattern ), my lord/ 

“You refuse?” said the marquis ; and the tone of the ques- 
tion was like the first cold puff that indicates a change of 
weather. 

“ I div, my lord/ she answered imperturbably. 

“ If they are not my property, why do you bring me this?" 

“ Are they your property, my lord ? ” 

“ This is my handwriting.” 

“Ye alloo that ? ” 

'Certainly, my good woman. You did not expect me to 
deny it ? ” 


MISS HORN AND LORD LOSSIE. 


39 * 


“ God forbid, my lord ! But will ye uphaud yerseP the lawfu' 
heir to the deceased ? It lies ’atween yer lordship an’ mysel’ — 
i’ the meantime.” 

He sat down, holding the scrap of paper between his finger 
and thumb. 

“ I will buy them of you/' he said coolly, after a moment’s 
thought, and as he spoke he looked keenly at her. 

The form of reply which first arose in Miss Horn’s indignant 
soul never reached her lips. 

“ It’s no my trade,” she answered, with the coldness of sup- 
pressed wrath. “ I dinna deal in sic waurs.” 

“ What do you deal in then ? ” asked the marquis. 

“ In trouth an’ fair play, my lord,” she answered, and was 
again silent. 

So was the marquis for some ' moments, but was the first to 
resume. 

“ If you think the papers to which you refer of the least value, 
allow me to tell you it is an entire mistake.” 

u There was ane thoucht them o’ vailue,” replied Miss Horn — 
and her voice trembled a little, but she hemmed away her 
emotion — “ — for a time at least, my lord ; an’ for her sake they’re 
o’ vailue to me, be they what they may to yer lordship. But wha 
can tell ? Scots law may put life intill them yet, an’ gie them a 
vailue to somebody forbye me.” 

“ What I mean, my good woman, is, that if you think the 
possession of those papers gives you any hold over me which 
you can turn to your advantage, you are mistaken.” 

“ Guid forgie ye, my lord ! My advantage ! I thoucht yer 
lordship had been mair o’ a gentleman by this time, or I wad 
hae sent a lawyer till ye, in place o’ coinin’ mysel’.” 

“ What do you mean by that ? ” 

“ It’s plain ye cudna hae been muckle o’ a gentleman ance, 
my lord ; an’ it seems ye’re no muckle mair o’ ane yet, for a’ ye 
maun hae come throu’ i’ the meantime.” 

“ I trust you have discovered nothing in those letters to 
afford ground for such a harsh judgment,” said the marquis 
seriously. 

“ Na, no a word i’ them, but the mair oot o’ them. Ye winna 
threep upo’ me ’at a man wha lea’s a wuman, lat alane his wife — 
or ane ’at he ca’s his wife — to a’ the pains o’ a mither, an’ a’ the 
penalties o’ an oonmerried ane, ohn ever speirt hoo she wan 
throu’ them, preserves the richt he was bom till o’ bein’ coontit a 
gentleman ? Ony gait, a maiden wuman like mysel’ wha has nae 
feelin’s. will not alloo him the teetle- Guid forbid it !’ 


29 2 


MALCOLM ; 


“ You are plain-spoken.” 

“ I ’m plain-made, my lord. I ken guid frae ill, an* little 
forbye, but aye fand that eneuch to sare my turn. Aither thae 
letters o’ yer lordship’s are ilk ane o’ them a lee, or ye aesertit 
yer wife an’ bairn ” 

“Alas!” interrupted the marquis with some emotion — “she 
deserted me — and took the child with her !” 

“Wha ever daurt sic a lee upo’ my Grizel?” shouted Mis9 
Horn, clenching and shaking her bony fist at the world in general 
“ It was but a fortnicht or three weeks, as near as I can judge 
efter the birth o’ your bairn, that Grizel Cam’ell ” 

“ Were you with her then?” again interrupted the marquis, in 
a tone of sorrowful interest. 

“ No, my lord, I was not. Gien I had been, I wadna be upo' 
sic an eeran’ this day. For nigh twenty lang years ’at her ’an me 
keepit hoose thegither, till she dee ’d i’ my airms, never a day was 
she oot o’ my sicht, or ance ” 

The marquis leaped rather than started to his feet, exclaiming, — 

“ What in the name of God do you mean, woman ?” 

u I kenna what ye mean, my lord. I ken ’at I ’m but tellin’ ye 
the trouth whan I tell ye ’at Grizel Cam’ell, up to that day, an* 
that ’s little ower sax month sin’ syne, ” 

“ Good God !” cried the marquis ; “ and here have I ! — 

Woman ! are you speaking the truth ? — If ,” he added threat- 

eningly, and paused. 

“ Leein’ ’s what I never cud bide, my lord, an’ I ’m no likly to 
tak till ’t at my age, wi’ the lang to-come afore me.” 

The marquis strode several times up and down the floor. 

“ I ’ll give you a thousand pounds for those letters,” he said, 
suddenly stopping in front of Miss Horn. 

“ They ’re o’ nae sic worth, my lord — I hae yer ain word for ’t 
But I carena the leg o’ a spin-maggie (, daddy-longlegs ) ! Pairt wi’ 
them I will not, ’cep’ to him ’at pruves himsel’ the richtfu’ heir 
to them.” 

“ A husband inherits from his wife.” 

“ Or maybe her son micht claim first — I dinna ken. But there ’s 
lawyers, my lord, to redd the doot.” 

“ Her son ! You don’t mean ?” 

I div mean Ma’colm MacPhail, my lord.” 

“ God in heaven ! ” 

“ His name ’s mair i’ yer mou’ nor i’ yer hert, I ’m doobtin*, my 
lord ! Ye a’ cry oot upo’ him — the men o’ ye — whan ye’ ’re in 
ony tribble, or want to gar women believe ye ! But I ’m thinkin’ 
he peys but little heed to sic prayers.” 


MISS HORN AND LORD LOSSIE. 


393 


Thus Miss Horn ; but Lord Lossie was striding up and down 
the room, heedless of her remarks, his eyes on the ground, his 
arms straight by his sides, and his hands clenched. 

‘Can you prove what you say?” he asked at length, half 
stopping, and casting an almost wild look at Miss Horn, then 
resuming his hurried walk. His voice sounded hollow, as if sent 
from the heart of a gulf of pain. 

“ No, my lord,” answered Miss Horn. 

“ Then what the devil,” roared the marquis, “ do you mean by 
coming to me with such a cock-and-bull story.” 

“ There ’s naither cock-craw nor bill rair intill ’t my lord. I 
cum to you wi’ ’t i’ the houp ye ’ll help to redd {clear) it up, for I 
dinna weel ken what we can du wantin’ ye. There ’s but ane 
kens a’ the truth o’ ’t, an’ she ’s the awfu’es leear oot o’ purgatory 
— no ’at I believe in purgatory, but it ’s the langer an’ lichter 
word to mak* use o’.” 

“ Who is she?” 

“ By name she’s Bauby Cat’nach, an’ by natur’ she’s what I tell 
ye — an’ gien I had her ’atween my twa een, it ’s what I wad say 
to the face o’ her.” 

“ It can’t be MacPhail ! Mrs Stewart says he is her son, and 
the woman Catanach is her chief witness in support of the claim.” 

“ The deevil has a better to the twa o’ them, my lord, as they ’ll 
ken some day. His claim ’ll want nae supportin’. Dinna ye 
believe a word Mistress Stewart or Bauby Catanach aither wad say 
to ye. — Gien he be Mistress Stewart’s, wha was his father?” 

“ You think he resembles my late brother: he has a look of 
him, I confess.” 

“ He has, my lord. But onybody ’at kent the mither o’ ’m, as 
you an’ me did, my lord, wad see anither lik’ness as weel.” 

“ I grant nothing.” 

“Ye grant Grizel Cam’ell yer wife, my lord, whan ye own to 
that wreet. Gien ’t war naething but a written promise an’ a 
bairn to follow, it wad be merriage eneuch i’ this cuintry, though 
it mayna be in cuintries no sae ceevileest.” 

“ But all that is nothing as to the child. Why do you fix on 
this young fellow? You say you can’t prove it” 

“ But ye cud, my lord, gien ye war as set upo’ justice as I am. 
Gien ye winna muv i’ the maitter, we s’ manage to hirple {go halt- 
ing) throu’ wantin ye, though, wi’ the Lord’s help.’* 

The marquis, who had all this time continued his walk up and 
down the floor, stood still, raised his head as if about to speak, 
dropped it again on his chest, strode to the other window, turned, 
strode back, and said, — 


394 


MALCOLM. 


“ This is a very serious matter.” 

“ It ’s a’ that, my lord,” replied Miss Hom. 

“ You must give me a little time to turn it over,” said the 

marquis. 

“ Isna twenty year time eneuch, my lord ?” rejoined Miss Horn. 

“ I swear to you that till this moment I believed her twenty 
years in her grave. My brother sent me word that she died in 
childbed, and the child with her. I was then in Brussels with 
the Duke.” 

Miss Hom made three great strides, caught the marquis’s hand 
in both hers, and said, — 

“ I praise God ye ’re an honest man, my lord.” 

“ I hope so,” said the marquis, and seized the advantage : — 
“ You’ll hold your tongue about this?” he added, half inquiring, 
half requesting. 

“ As lang as I see rizzon, my lord, nae langer,” answered Miss 
Horn, dropping his hand. “ Richt maun be dune.” 

“Yes — if you can tell what right is, and avoid wrong to 
others.” 

“ Richt ’s richt, my lord,” persisted Miss Horn. “ I ’ll hae 
nae modifi-qualifications !” 

His lordship once more began to walk up and down the room, 
every now and then taking a stolen glance at Miss Horn, a glance 
of uneasy anxious questioning. She stood rigid — a very Lot’s 
wife of immobility, her eyes on the ground, waiting what he would 
say next. 

“ I wish I knew whether I could trust her,” he said at length, 
as if talking aloud to himself. 

Miss Hom took no notice. 

“Why don’t you speak, woman?” cried the marquis with 
irritation. How he hated perplexity ! 

“Ye speired nae queston, my lord; an’ gien ye had, my word 
has ower little weicht to answer wi\” 

“ Can I trust you, woman — I want to know,” said his lordship 
angrily. 

“No far’er, my lord, nor to du what I think ’s richt.” 

“ I want to be certain that you will do nothing with those letters 
until you hear from me ?” said the marquis, heedless of her reply. 

“ I ’ll du naething afore the morn. Far’er nor that I winna 
pledge mysel’,” answered Miss Horn, and with the words moved 
towards the door. 

“ Hadn’t you better take this with you ? ” said the marquis, 
offering the little note, which he had carried all the time between 
his finger and thumb. 


MISS HORN AND LORD LOSSIE . 


395 


“There’s nae occasion. I hae plenty wantin’ that. Only 
dinna lea’ ’t lyin’ aboot.” 

“ There ’s small danger of that,” said the marquis, and rang the 
bell. 

The moment she was out of the way, he went up to his own 
room, and, flinging the door to, sat down at the table, and laid 
his arms and head upon it The acrid vapour of tears that should 
have been wept long since, rose to his eyes : he dashed his hand 
across them, as if ashamed that he was not even yet out of sight 
of the kingdom of heaven. His own handwriting, of a period 
when all former sins and defilements seemed about to be burned 
clean from his soul by the fire of an honest and virtuous love, had 
moved him ; for genuine had been his affection for the girl who 
had risked and lost so much for him. It was with no evil intent, 
for her influence had rendered him for the time incapable of 
playing her false, but in part from reasons of prudence, as he 
persuaded himself, for both their sakes, and in part led astray by 
the zest which minds of a certain cast derive from the secrecy of 
pleasure, that he had persuaded her to the unequal yoking of 
honesty and secrecy. But, suddenly called away and sent by the 
Prince on a private mission, soon after their marriage, and before 
there was any special reason to apprehend consequences that must 
lead to discovery, he had, in the difficulties of the case and the 
hope of a speedy return, left her without any arrangement for 
correspondence ; and all he had ever heard of her more was from 
his brother, then the marquis — a cynical account of the discovery 
of her condition, followed almost immediately by a circumstantial 
one of her death and that of her infant. He was deeply stung ; 
and the thought of her sufferings in the false position where his 
selfishness had placed her, haunted him for a time beyond his 
endurance — for of all things he hated suffering, and of all 
sufferings remorse is the worst. Hence, where a wiser man might 
have repented, he rushed into dissipation, whose scorching wind 
swept away not only the healing dews of his sorrow, but the tender 
buds of new life that had begun to mottle the withering tree ot 
his nature. The desire after better things which had, under his 
wife’s genial influence, begun to pass into effort, not only vanished 
utterly in the shameless round of evil distraction, but its memory 
became a mockery to the cynical spirit that arose behind the van- 
ishing angel of repentance ; and he was soon in the condition of 
the man from whom the exorcised demon had gone but to find his 
seven worse companions. 

Reduced at length to straits — almost to want, he had married 
the mother of Florimel, to whom for a time he endeavoured to 


MALCOLM. 


conduct himself in some measure like a gentleman. For this he 
had been rewarded by a decrease in the rate of his spiritual sub- 
mergence, but his bedraggled nature could no longer walk without 
treading on its own plumes ; and the poor lady who had bartered 
herself for a lofty alliance, speedily found her mistake a sad one 
and her life uninteresting, took to repining and tears, alienated her 
husband utterly, and died of a sorrow almost too selfish to afford 
even a suggestion of purifying efficacy. But Florimel had not 
inherited immediately from her mother, so far as disposition was 
concerned ; in these latter days she had grown very dear to him, 
and his love had once more turned his face a little towards the 
path of righteousness. Ah ! when would he move one step to 
set his feet in it ? 

And now, after his whirlwind harvest of evil knowledge, bitter 
disappointment, and fading passion, in the gathering mists of gray 
hopelessness, and the far worse mephitic air of indifference, he 
had come all of a sudden upon the ghastly discovery that, while 
overwhelmed with remorse for the vanished past, the present and 
the future had been calling him, but had now also — that present 
and that future — glided from him, and folded their wings of gloom 
in the land of shadows. All the fierce time he might have been 
blessedly growing better, instead of heaping sin upon sin until the 
weight was too heavy for repentance ; for, while he had been be- 
moaning a dead wife, that wife had been loving a renegade 
husband ! And the blame of it all he did not fail to cast upon 
that Providence in which until now he had professed not to 
believe : such faith as he was yet capable of, awoke in the form 
of resentment ! He judged himself hardly done by ; and the few 
admonitory sermons he had happened to hear, especially that in 
the cave about the dogs going round the walls of the New 
Jerusalem, returned upon him, not as warnings, but as old threats 
now rapidly approaching fulfilment. 

Lovely still peered the dim face of his girl wife upon him, 
through the dusty lattice of his memory ; and a mighty cor- 
roboration of Malcolm’s asserted birth lay in the look upon his 
face as he hurried aghast from the hermit’s cell ; for not on his 
first had the marquis seen that look and in those very circum- 
stances ! And the youth was one to be proud of— one among a 
million ! But there were other and terrible considerations. 

Incapable as he naturally was of doing justice to a woman of 
Miss Horn’s inflexibility in right, he could yet more than surmise 
the absoluteness of that inflexibility — partly because it was hostile 
to himself, and he was in the mood to believe in opposition and 
harshness, and deny — not providence, but goodness. Convenient 


MTSS HORN AND LORD LOSSIE. 


397 


half-measures would, he more than feared, find no favour with 
her. But she had declared her inability to prove Malcolm his 
son without the testimony of Mrs Catanach, and the latter was 
even now representing him as the son of Mrs Stewart ! That 
Mrs Catanach at the same time could not be ignorant of what 
had become of the child born to him, he was all but certain ; for, 
on that night when Malcolm and he found her in the wizard’s 
chamber, had she not proved her strange story — of having been 
carried to that very room blindfolded, and, after sole attendance 
on the birth of a child, whose mother’s features, even in her worst 
pains, she had not once seen, in like manner carried away again, 
— had she not proved the story true by handing him the ring she 
had drawn from the lady’s finger, and sewn, for the sake of future 
identification, into the lower edge of one of the bed-curtains— 
which ring was a diamond he had given his wife from his own 
finger when they parted ? She probably believed the lady to have 
been Mrs Stewart, and the late marquis the father of the child. 
Should he see Mrs Catanach ? And what then ? 

He found no difficulty in divining the reasons which must 
have induced his brother to provide for the secret accouchement 
of his wife in the wizard’s chamber, and for the abduction of the 
child — if indeed his existence was not owing to Mrs Catanach’s 
love of intrigue. The elder had judged the younger brother 
unlikely to live long, and had expected his own daughter to 
succeed himself. But now the younger might any day marry the 
governess, and legalize the child ; and the elder had therefore 
secured the disappearance of the latter, and the belief of his 
brother in the death of both. 

Lord Lossie was roused from his reverie by a tap at the door, 
which he knew for Malcolm’s, and answered with admission. 

When he entered, his master saw that a change had passed 
upon him, and for a moment believed Miss Horn had already 
broken faith with him and found communication with Malcolm. 
He was soon satisfied of the contrary, however, but would have 
found it hard indeed to understand, had it been represented to 
him, that the contentment, almost elation, of the youth’s 
countenance had its source in the conviction that he was not the 
son of Mrs Stewart. 

“ So here you are at last 1 ” said the marquis. 

“ Ay, my lord ? ” 

“ Did you find Stewart ? ” 

“ Ay did we at last, my lord ; but we made naething by 't, for 
he kent noucht aboot the lassie, an ’maist lost his wuts at the 
news." 


398 


MALCOLM. 


“No great loss, that!” said the marquis. “Go and send 

Stoat here.” 

“ Is there ony hurry aboot Sto’t, my lord ? ” asked Malcolm, 
hesitating. “ I had a word to say to yer lordshij) mysel’.” 

“ Make haste then.” 

“ I ’m some fain to gang back to the fishin’, my lord,” said 
Malcolm. “ This is ower easy a life for me. The deil wins in for 
the liftin’ o’ the sneck. Forbye, my lord, a life wi’oot aither 
danger or wark ’s some wersh-like ( insipid ) ; it wants saut, my 
lord. But a’ that ’s naither here nor there, I ken, sae lang’s ye 
want me oot o’ the hoose, my lord.” 

“ Who told you I wanted you out of the house? By Jove ! 
I should have made shorter work of it What put that in your 
head? Why should I?” 

“ Gien yer lordship kens nane, sma’ occasion hae I to haud a 
rizzon to yer han’. I thoucht — but the thoucht itsel’s impidence.” 

“ You young fool ! You thought, because I came upon you as 
I did in the garret the other night — Bah ! — You damned ape ! 
As if I could not trust — ! Pshaw ! ” 

For the moment Malcolm forgot how angry his master had 
certainly been, although, for Florimel’s sake -doubtless, he had 
restrained himself ; and fancied that, in the faint light of the one 
candle, he had seen little to annoy him, and had taken the storm 
and its results, which were indeed the sole reason, as a sufficient 
one for their being alone together. Everything seemed about 
to come right again. But his master remained silent. 

“ I houp my leddy’s weel,” ventured Malcolm at length. 

“ Quite well. She’s with Lady Bellair, in Edinburgh.” 

Lady Bellair was the bold-faced countess. 

“ I dinna like her,” said Malcolm. 

‘‘Who the devil asked you to like her?” said the marquis. 
But he laughed as he said it. 

“ I beg yer lordship’s pardon,” returned Malcolm. “ I said it 
or I kent. It was nane o’ my business wha my leddy was wi’.” 

“ Certainly not. But I don’t mind confessing that Lady 
Bellair is not one I should choose to give authority over Lady 
Florimel. You have some regard for your young mistress, I 
know, Malcolm.” 

“ I wad dee for her, my lord.” 

“ That ’s a common assertion,” said the marquis. 

“No wi’ fisher fowk. I kenna hoo it may be wi’ your fowk, 
my lord.” 

“ Well, even with us it means something. It implies at least 
that he who uses it would risk his life for her whom he wishes to 


MISS HORN AND LORD LOSS/E. 


399 


believe it. But perhaps it may mean more than that in the 
mouth of a fisherman? Do you fancy there is such a thing as 
devotion — real devotion, I mean — self-sacrifice, you know ? ” 

“ I daurna doobt it, my lord.’' 

“ Without fee or hope of reward ? ” 

“ There maun be some cawpable o’ ’t, my lord, or what for sud 
the warl’ be? What ither sud haud it ohn been destroyt as 
Sodom was for the want o’ the ten richteous? There maun be 
saut whaur corruption hasna the thing a’ its ain gait.” 

“You certainly have pretty high notions of things, MacPhail ! 
For my part, I can easily enough imagine a man risking his life ; 
but devoting it ! — that ’s another thing altogether.” 

“ There maun be ’at wad du a’ ’t cud be dune, my lord.” 

“ What, for instance, would you do for Lady Florimel, now ? 
You say you would die for her : what does dying mean on a 
fisherman’s tongue?” 

“ It means a’ thing, my lord — short o’ ill. I wad sterve for 
her, but I wadna steal. I wad fecht for her, but I wadna lee.” 

“ Would ye be her servant all your days? Come, now ! ” 

“ Mair nor willin’ly, my lord — gien she wad only hae me, an’ 
keep me.” 

“ But supposing you came to inherit the Kirkbyres property?” 

“ My lord,” said Malcolm solemnly, “ that ’s a puir test to put 
me till. It gangs for naething. I wad raither clean my leddie’s 
butes frae mornin’ to nicht, nor be the son o’ that wuman, gien 
she war a born duchess. Try me wi’ something worth yer lord- 
ship’s mou’.” 

But the marquis seemed to think he had gone far enough for 
the present. With gleaming eyes he rose, took his withered love- 
letter from the table, put it in his waistcoat pocket, and saying — 

“ Well, find out for me what this is they’re about with the 
school-master,” walked to the door. 

“ I ken a’ aboot that, my lord,” answered Malcolm, “ ohn speirt 
at onybody.” 

Lord Lossie turned from the door, ordered him to bring his 
riding coat and boots, and, ringing the bell, sent a message to 
Stoat to saddle the bay mare. 


400 


MALCOZJf. 


CHAPTER LX IV. 

THE LAIRD AND HIS MOTHER. 

When Malcolm and Joseph set out from Duff Harbour to find 
the laird, they could hardly be said to have gone in search of 
him : all in their power was to seek the parts where he was 
occasionally seen in the hope of chancing upon him ; and they 
wandered in vain about the woods of Fife House all that week, 
returning disconsolate every evening to the little inn on the 
banks of the Wan Water. Sunday came and went without yield- 
ing a trace of him ; and, almost in despair, they resolved, if 
unsuccessful the next day, to get assistance and organize a search 
for him. Monday passed like the days that had preceded it, and 
they were returning dejectedly down the left bank of the Wan 
Water, in the gloaming and nearing a part where it is hemmed 
in by precipitous rocks, and is very narrow and deep, crawling 
slow and black under the lofty arch of an ancient bridge that 
spans it at one leap, when suddenly they caught sight of a head 
peering over the parapet. They dared not run for fear of terrify- 
ing him, if it should be the laird, and hurried quietly to the spot. 
But when they reached the end of the bridge its round back 
was bare from end to end. On the other side of the river, the 
trees came close up, and pursuit was hopeless in the gathering 
darkness. 

“ Laird, laird ! they’ve taen awa’ Phemy, an’ we dinna ken 
whaur to luik for her,” cried the poor father aloud. 

Almost the same instant, and as if he had issued from the 
ground, the laird stood before them. The men started back with 
astonishment — soon changed into pity, for there was light enough 
to see how miserable the poor fellow looked. Neither exposure 
nor privation had thus wrought upon him : he was simply dying 
of fear. Having greeted Joseph with embarrassment, he kept 
glancing doubtfully at Malcolm, as if ready to run on his least 
movement. In a few words Joseph explained their quest, with 
trembling voice and tears that would not be denied enforcing the 
tale. Ere he had done, the laird’s jaw had fallen, and further 
speech was impossible to him. But by gestures sad and plain 
enough, he indicated that he knew nothing of her, and had sup- 
posed her safe at home with her parents. In vain they tried to 
persuade him to go back with them, promising every protection : 
lor sole answer he shook his head mournfully. 


THE LAIRD AND HIS MOTHER. 


401 


Th ere came a sudden gust of wind among the branches. J oseph, 
little used to trees and their ways with the wind, turned towards 
the sound, and Malcolm unconsciously followed his movement. 
When they turned again, the laird had vanished, and they took 
their way homeward in sadness. 

What passed next with the laird, can be but conjectured. It 
came to be well enough known afterwards where he had been 
hiding ; and had it not been dusk as they came down the river- 
bank, the two men might, looking up to the bridge from below, 
have had it suggested to them. For in the half spandrel-wall 
between the first arch and the bank, they might have spied a 
small window, looking down on the sullen, silent gloom, foam- 
flecked with past commotion, that crept languidly away from 
beneath. It belonged to a little vaulted chamber in the bridge, 
devised by some banished lord as a kind of summer-house — long 
neglected, but having in it yet a mouldering table, a broken chair 
or two, and a rough bench. A little path led steep from the end 
of the parapet down to its hidden door. It was now used only 
by the gamekeepers for traps and fishing-gear, and odds and 
ends of things, and was generally supposed to be locked up. 
The laird had, however, found it open, and his refuge in it had 
been connived at by one of the men, who, as they heard after- 
wards, had given him the key, and assisted him in carrying out a 
plan he had devised for barricading the door. It was from this 
place he had so suddenly risen at the call of Blue Peter, and to 
it he had as suddenly withdrawn again — to pass in silence and 
loneliness through his last purgatorial pain.* 

Mrs Stewart was sitting in her drawing-room alone : she seldom 
had visitors at Kirkbyres — not that she liked being alone, or 
indeed being there at all, for she would have lived on the Conti- 
nent, but that her son’s trustees, partly to indulge their own 
aversion to her, taking upon them a larger discretionary power 
than rightly belonged to them, kept her too straitened, which no 
doubt in the recoil had its share in poor Stephen’s misery. It 
was only after scraping for a whole year that she could escape to 
Paris or Plomburg, where she was at home. There her sojourn 
was determined by her good or ill fortune at faro. 

What she meditated over her knitting by the fire-light, — she 
had put out her candles, — it would be hard to say, perhaps un- 
wholesome to think : — there are souls to look into which is, to 

* Coni’ io fui dentro , in tin bogliente vetro 
Gittato mi sarei per rin/rescarmi, 

Tant' era ivi lo ’ ncendio senza metro. 

Del Purgatoria, xxvii. 49. 


4-02 


MALCOLM . 


our dim eyes, like gazing down from the verge of one of the 

Swedenborgian pits. 

But much of the evil done by human beings is as the evil of evil 
beasts : they know not what they do — an excuse which, except in 
regard of the past, no man can make for himself, seeing the very 
making of it must testify its falsehood. 

She looked up, gave a cry, and started to her feet : Stephen 
stood before her, half-way between her and the door. Revealed 
in a flicker of flame from the fire, he vanished in the following 
shade, and for a moment she stood in doubt of her seeing sense. 
But when the coal flashed again, there was her son, regarding her 
out of great eyes that looked as if they had seen death. A ghastly 
air hung about him as if he had just come back from Hades, but 
in his silent bearing there was a sanity, even dignity, which 
strangely impressed her. He came forward a pace or two, stopped, 
and said : — 

“ Dinna be frichtit, mem. I ’m come. Sen’ the lassie hame, 
an’ du wi’ me as ye like. I canna haud aff o’ me. But I think 
1 ’m deem’, an ye needna misguide me.'’ 

His voice, although it trembled a little, was clear and unim- 
peded, and though weak, in its modulation manly. 

Something in the woman’s heart responded. Was it mother- 
hood — or the deeper godhead? Was it pity for the dignity 
housed in the crumbling clay, or repentance for the son of her 
womb ? Or was it that sickness gave hope, and she could afford 
to be kind ? 

“ I don’t know what you mean, Stephen,” she said, more gently 
than he had ever heard her speak. 

Was it an agony of mind or of body, or was it but a flicker- 
ing of the shadows upon his face? A moment, and he gave a 
half-choked shriek, and fell on the floor. His mother turned 
from him with disgust, and rang the bell. 

“ Send Tom here,” she said. 

An elderly, hard-featured man came. 

“ Stephen is in one of his fits,” she said. 

The man looked about him : he could see no one in the room 
but his mistress. 

“ There he is,” she continued, pointing to the floor. “ Take 
him away. Get him up to the loft and lay him in the hay.” 

The man lifted his master like an unwieldy log, and carried 
him convulsed from the room. 

Stephen’s mother sat down again by the fire, and resumed her 
knitting. 


THE LAIRDS VISION. 


403 


CHAPTER LX V. 

THE LAIRD’S VISION 

Malcolm had just seen his master set out for his solitary ride, 
when one of the maids informed him that a man from Kirkbyres 
wanted him. Hiding his reluctance, he went with her and found 
Tom, who was Mrs Stewart’s grieve, and had been about the 
place all his days. 

“ Mr Stephen ’s come hame, sir,” he said, touching his bonnet, 
a civility for which Malcolm was not grateful 

“ It ’s no possible ! ” returned Malcolm. “ I saw him last 
nicht.” 

“ He cam aboot ten o’clock, sir, an’ hed a turn o’ the fa’in’ 
sickness o’ the spot. He’s verra ill the noo, an’ the mistress 
sent me ower to speir gien ye wad obleege her by gaein’ to see 
him.” 

“ Has he ta’en till ’s bed ? ” asked Malcolm. 

“ We pat him till ’t, sir. He ’s ravin’ mad, an’ I ’m thinkin’ he’s 
no far frae his hin’er en\” 

“ I ’ll gang wi’ ye direckly,” said Malcolm. 

In a few minutes they were riding fast along the road to Kirk- 
byres, neither with much to say to the other, for Malcolm dis- 
trusted every one about the place, and Tom was by nature 
taciturn. 

“What garred them sen’ for me — div ye ken ? ” asked Malcolm 
at length, when they had gone about half-way. 

“ He cried oot upo’ ye i’ the nicht,” answered Tom. 

When they arrived, Malcolm was shown into the drawing-room, 
where Mrs Stewart met him with red eyes. 

“ Will you come and see my poor boy ? ” she said. 

“ I wull du that, mem. Is he verra ill ?” 

“ Very. I ’m afraid he is in a bad way.” 

She led him to a dark old-fashioned chamber, rich and gloomy. 
There, sunk in the down of a huge bed with carved ebon> posts, 
lay the laird, far too ill to be incommoded by the luxury to which 
he was unaccustomed. His head kept tossing from sidr to side, 
and his eyes seemed searching in vacancy. 

“ Has the doctor been to see ’im, mem ? ” asked Malcolm. 

“ Yes ; but he says he can’t do anything for him.” 

“ Wha waits upon ’im, mem ? ” 

“ One of the maids and myself.” 


404 


MALCOLM. 


“ I ’ll jist bide wi’ ’im.” 

“That will be very kind of you.” 

“ I s’ bide wi’ ’im till I see ’im oot o’ this, ae w’y or ither,” 
added Malcolm, and sat down by the bedside of his poor dis- 
trustful friend. There Mrs Stewart left him. 

The laird was wandering in the thorny thickets and slimy 
marshes which, haunted by the thousand mis-shapen horrors of 
delirium, beset the gates of life. That one so near the light, and 
slowly drifting into it, should lie tossing in hopeless darkness ! Is 
it that the delirium falls, a veil of love, to hide other and more 
real terrors ? 

His eyes would now and then meet those of Malcolm, as they 
gazed tenderly upcn him, but the living thing that looked out of 
the windows was darkened, and saw him not. Occasionally a 
word would fall from him, or a murmur of half-articulation float 
up, like the sound of a river of souls; but whether Malcolm 
heard, or only seemed to hear, something like this, he could not 
tell, for he could not be certain that he had not himself shaped 
the words by receiving the babble into the moulds of the laird’s 
customary thought and speech. 

“ I dinna ken whaur I cam frae ! — I kenna whaur I ’m gaein* 
till. — Eh, gien he wad but come oot an’ shaw himsel’ !— O Lord ! 
tak the deevil aff o’ my puir back. — O Father o’ lichts ! gar him 
tak the hump wi’ him. I hae nae fawvour for ’t, though it ’s been 
my constant companion this mony a lang.” 

But in general, he only moaned, and after the words thus 
heard or fashioned by Malcolm, lay silent and nearly still for an 
hour. 

All the waning afternoon Malcolm sat by his side, and neither 
mother, maid, nor doctor came near them. 

“ Dark wa’s an’ no a breath ! ” he murmured or seemed to 
murmur again. “Nae gerse, nor flooers, nor bees! — I hae na 
room for my hump, an’ I canna lie upo’ ’t, for that wad kill me ! 
— Wull I ever ken whaur I cam frae? — The wine’s unco guid. 
Gie me a drap mair, gien ye please, Lady Horn. — I thought the 
grave was a better place. I hae lain safter afore I dee’d. — 
Phemy ! Phemy ! Rin, Phemy, rin ! I s’ bide wi’ them this 
time. Ye rin, Phemy !” 

As it grew dark, the air turned very chill, and snow began to 
fall thick and fast. Malcolm laid a few sticks on the smouldering 
peat-fire, but they were damp and did not catch. All at once the 
laird gave a shriek, and crying out, “ Mither, mither !” fell into a 
fit so violent that the heavy bed shook with bis convulsions. 
Malcolm held his wrists and called aloud. No one came, and 


THE LAIRD'S VISION. 


405 

bethinking himself that none could help, he waited in silence for 
what would follow. 

The fit passed quickly, and he lay quiet. The sticks had 
meantime dried, and suddenly they caught fire and blazed up. 
The laird turned his face towards the flame ; a smile came over 
it ; his eyes opened wide, and with such an expression of 
seeing gazed beyond Malcolm, that he turned his in the same 
direction. 

“ Eh, the bonny man ! The bonny man ! ” murmured the 
laird. 

But Malcolm saw nothing, and turned again to the laird : his 
jaw had fallen, and the light was fading out of his face like the 
last of a sunset He was dead. 

Malcolm rang the bell, told the woman who answered it what 
had taken place, and hurried from the house, glad at heart that 
his friend was at rest. 

He had ridden but a short distance when he was overtaken 
by a boy on a fast pony, who pulled up as he neared him. 

“ Whaur are ye for? ” asked Malcolm. 

“ I’m gaein’ for Mistress Cat’nach,” answered the boy. 

“ Gang yer wa’s than, an’ dinna haud the deid waitm’,” said 
Malcolm, with a shudder. 

The boy cast a look of dismay behind him, and galloped off. 

The snow still fell, and the night was dark. Malcolm spent 
nearly two hours on the way, and met the boy returning, who 
told him that Mrs Catanach was not to be found. 

His road lay down the glen, past Duncan’s cottage, at whose 
door he dismounted, but he did not find him. Taking the 
bridle on his arm he walked by his horse the rest of the way. 
It was about nine o’clock, and the- night very dark. As he 
neared the house, he heard Duncan’s voice. 

“ Malcolm, my son ! Will it pe your own self?” it said. 

“ It wull that, daddy,” answered Malcolm. 

The piper was sitting on a fallen tree, with the snow settling 
softly upon him. 

“ But it’s ower cauld for ye to be sittin’ there i’ the snaw, an’ 
the mirk tu ! ” added Malcolm. 

“Ta tarkness will not be ketting to ta inside of her,” returned 
the seer. “ Ah, my poy ! where ta light kets in, ta tarkness will 
pe ketting in too. Tis now, your whole pody will pe full of 
tarkness, as ta piple will say, and Tuncan’s pody — tat will pe full 
of ta light.” Then with suddenly changed tone he said — • 
“ Listen, Malcolm, my son ! She ’ll pe fery uneasy till you ’ll 
wass pe come home.” 


40 6 


MALCOLM. 


“ What s the maitter noo, daddy ? ” returned Malcolm. “ Ony- 
ihing wrang aboot the hoose ? ” 

“ Someting will pe wrong, yes, put she ’ll not can tell where, 
No, her pody will not pe full of light! For town here in ta 
curset Lowlands, ta sight has peen almost cone from her, my 
son. It will now pe no more as a co creeping troo’ her, and 
she ’ll nefer see plain no more till she ’ll pe cone pack to her 
own mountains.” 

“ The puir laird’s gane back to his,” said Malcolm. “ I won’er 
gien he kens yet, or gien he gangs speirin’ at ilk ane he meets 
gien he can tell him whaur he cam frae. He’s mad nae mair, 
ony gait.” 

“ How? Will he pe not tead? Ta poor lairt.! Ta poor maad 
lairt ! ” 

“ Ay, he’s deid : maybe that’s what ’ll be troublin’ yer sicht, 

daddy.” 

“ No, my son. Ta maad lairt was not fery maad, and if he was 
maad he was not paad, and it was not to ta plame of him ; he 
wass coot always however.” 

“ He was that, daddy.” 

“ But it will pe something fery paad, and it will pe troubling 
her speerit. When she’ll pe take ta pipes, to pe amusing herself, 
and will plow Till an crodh a ’ Dhonnachaidh ( Turn the cows , 
Duncan ), out will pe come Cumhadh an fhir mhoir ( The Lament 
of the Big Man). All is not well, my son.” 

“ Weel, dinna distress yersel’, daddy. Lat come what wull 
some. Foreseein’ ’s no forefen’in’. Ye ken yersel’ ’at mony 's 
the time the seer has broucht the thing on by tryin’ to haud 
itaff.” 

“ It will pe true, my son. Put it would aalways haf come.” 

“ Nae doobt ; sae ye jist come in wi’ me, daddy, an’ sit doon 
by the ha’ fire, an’ I ’ll come to ye as sune ’s I’ve been to see ’at 
the maister disna want me. But ye’ll better come up wi’ me to 
my room first,” he went on, “ for the maister disna like to see 
me in onything but the kilt.” 

“ And why will he no pe in ta kilts aal as now ? ” 

“ I hae been ridin’, ye ken, daddy, an’ the trews fits the 
said die better nor the kilts.” 

“ She’ll not pe knowing tat. Old Allister, your creat — her 
own crandfather, was ta pest horseman ta worrit efer saw, and 
he ’ll nefer pe hafing ta trews to his own leeks nor ta saddle to 
his horse’s pack. He ’ll chust make his men pe strap on an old 
plaid, and he ’ll pe kive a chump, and away they wass, horse and 
man, one peast, aal two of tem poth together.” 


THE CRY FROM THE CHAMBER. 


407 


Thus chatting they went to the stable, and from the stable to 
the house, where they met no one, and went straight up to 
Malcolm’s room — the old man making as little of the long ascent 
as Malcolm himselfl 


CHAPTER LX VI. 

THE CRY FROM THE CHAMBER. 

Brooding, if a man of his temperament may ever be said to 
brood, over the sad history of his young wife and the prospects 
of his daughter, the marquis rode over fields and through gates 
— he never had been one to jump a fence in cold blood — till the 
darkness began to fall ; and the bearings of his perplexed posi- 
tion came plainly before him. 

First of all, Malcolm acknowledged, and the date of his 
mother’s death known, what would Florimel be in the eyes of 
the world ? Supposing the world deceived by the statement that 
his mother died when he was born, where yet was the future he 
had marked out for her ? He had no money to leave her, and 
she must be helplessly dependent on her brother. 

Malcolm, on the other hand, might make a good match, or, 
with the advantages he could secure him, in the army, still better 
in the navy, well enough push his way in the world. 

Miss Horn could produce no testimony ; and Mrs Catanach 
had asserted him the son of Mrs Stewart. He had seen enough, 
however, to make him dread certain possible results if Malcolm 
were acknowledged as the laird of Kirkbyres. No ; there was 
but one hopeful measure, one which he had even already ap- 
proached in a tentative way — an appeal, namely, to Malcolm 
himself — in which, acknowledging his probable rights, but repre- 
senting in the strongest manner the difficulty of proving them, he 
would set forth, in their full dismay, the consequences to 
Florimel of their public recognition, and offer, upon the pledge 
of his word to a certain line of conduct, to start him in any path 
he chose to follow. 

Having thought the thing out pretty thoroughly, as he fancied, 
and resolved at the same time to feel his way towards negotia 
tions with Mrs Catanach, he turned and rode home. 

After a tolerable dinner, lie was sitting over a bottle of the 
Dort which he prized beyond anything else his succession had 


408 


MALCOLM. 


Drought him, when the door of the dining-room opened suddenly, 
and the butler appeared, pale with terror. 

“ My lord ! my lord ! ” he stammered, as he closed the door 
behind him. 

“Well? What the devil’s the matter now? Whose cow’s dead? ” 

“Your lordship didn’t hear it then?” faltered the butler. 

“ You’ve been drinking, Bings,” said the marquis, lifting his 
seventh glass of port. 

“ / didn’t say I heard it, my lord.” 

“ Heard what — in the name of Beelzebub ? ” 

“ The ghost, my lord.” 

“ The what ? ” shouted the marquis. 

“ That’s what they call it, my lord. It * s all along of having 
that wizard’s chamber in the house, my lord.” 

“ You’re a set of fools,” said the marquis, “ — the whole kit of 
you ! ” 

“ That’s what I say, my lord. I don’t know what to do with 
them, stericking and screaming. Mrs Courthope is trying her 
best with them ; but it’s my belief she’s about as bad herself.” 

The marquis finished his glass of wine, poured out and drank 
another, then walked to the door. When the butler opened it, 
a strange sight met his eyes. All the servants in the house, men 
and women, Duncan and Malcolm alone excepted, had crowded 
after the butler, every one afraid of being left behind ; and there 
gleamed the crowd of ghastly faces in the light of the great hall- 
fire. Demon stood in front, his mane bristling, and his eyes 
flaming. Such was the silence that the marquis heard the low 
howl of the waking wind, and the snow like the patting of soft 
hands against the windows. He stood for a moment, more than 
half-enjoying their terror, when from somewhere in the building 
a far-off shriek, shrill and piercing, rang in every ear. Some of 
the men drew in their breath with a gasping sob, but most of the 
women screamed outright, and that set the marquis cursing. 

Duncan and Malcolm had but just entered the bedroom of the 
latter, when the shriek rent the air close beside, and for a 
moment deafened them. So agonized, so shrill, so full of dismal 
terror was it, that Malcolm stood aghast, and Duncan started to 
his feet with responsive outcry. But Malcolm at once recovered 
himself. 

“ Bide here till I come back,” he whispered, and hurried noise- 
lessly out. 

In a few minutes he returned — during which all had been still. 

“ Noo, daddy,” he said, “ I’m gaein’ to drive in the door o’ the 
neist room. There ’s some deevilry at wark there. Stan’ ye i* 


THE CRY FROM THE CHAMBER . 


409 

the door, an’ ghaist or deevil ’at wad win by ye, grip it, an* haud 
on like Demon the dog.” 

“ She will so, she will so ! ” muttered Duncan in a strange 
tone. “ Ochone ! that she’ll not pe hafing her turk with her ! 
Ochone ! Ochone ! ” 

Malcolm took the key of the wizard’s chamber from his chest, 
and his candle from the table, which he set down in the passage. 
In a moment he had unlocked the door, put his shoulder to it, 
and burst it open. A light was extinguished, and a shapeless 
figure went gliding away through the gloom. It was no shadow, 
however, for, dashing itself against a door at the other side of 
the chamber, it staggered back with an imprecation of fury and 
fear, pressed two hands to its head, and, turning at bay, revealed 
the face of Mrs Catanach. 

In the door stood the blind piper, with outstretched arms, and 
hands ready to clutch, the fingers curved like claws, his knees 
and haunches bent, leaning forward like a rampant beast prepared 
to spring. In his face was wrath, hatred, vengeance, disgust — 
an enmity of all mingled kinds. 

Malcolm was busied with something in the bed, and when she 
turned, Mrs Catanach saw only the white face of hatred gleaming 
through the darkness. 

“ Ye auld donnert deevil ! ” she cried, with an addition too 
coarse to be set down, and threw herself upon him. 

The old man said never a word, but with indrawn breath 
hissing through his clenched teeth, clutched her, and down they 
went together in the passage, the piper undermost. He had hei 
by the throat, it is true, but she had her fingers in his eyes, and 
kneeling on his chest, kept him down with a vigour of hostile 
effort that drew the very picture of murder. It lasted but a 
moment, however, for the old man, spurred by torture as well as 
hate, gathered what survived of a most sinewy strength into one 
huge heave, threw her back into the room, and rose, with the blood 
streaming from his eyes — just as the marquis came round the 
near end of the passage, followed by Mrs Courthope, the butler. 
Stoat, and two of the footmen. Heartily enjoying a row , he 
stopped instantly, and signing a halt to his followers, stood lis- 
tening to the mud-geyser that now burst from Mrs Catanach’s 
throat. 

“ Ye blin’ abortion o’ Sawtan’s soo ! ” she cried, “ didna I tak 
ye to du wi’ ye as I likit. An’ that deil’s tripe ye ca’ yer oye 
( grandson ) — he ! he ! — him yer gran’son ! He’s naething but ane 
o’ yer hatit Cawm’ells ! ” 

u A teanga a’ diabhuil mhoir, tha thu ag deanamh breug ( 0 


4io 


MALCOLM. 


tongue of the great devil ’ thou art making a lie ) ! n screamed Dun- 
can, speaking for the first time.” 

“ God lay me deid i’ my sins gien he be onything bat a bastard 
Cawm’ell ! ” she asseverated with a laugh of demoniacal scorn. 
u Yer dautit ( petted ) Ma’colm ’s naething but the dyke-side brat 
o’ the late Grizel Cawm’ell, ’at the fowk tuik for a sant ’cause she 
grat an’ said naething. I laid the Cawm’ell pup i’ yer boody 
( scarecrow ) airms wi’ my ain han’s, upo’ the tap o’ yer curst 
scraighin’ bag-pipes ’at sae aften drave the sleep frae my een. 
Na, ye wad nane o’ me ! But I ga’e ye a Cawm'ell bairn to yer 
hert for a’ that, ye auld, hungert, weyver (sj>ider)-legg\t, worm-aten 
idiot ! ” 

A torrent of Gaelic broke from Duncan, into the midst of 
which rushed another from Mrs Catanach, similar, but coarse in 
vowel and harsh in consonant sounds. 

The marquis stepped into the room. 

“ What is the meaning of all this ? ” he said with dignity. 

The tumult of Celtic altercation ceased. The piper drew 
himself up to his full height, and stood silent. Mrs Catanach, 
red as fire with exertion and wrath, turned ashy pale. The mar- 
quis cast on her a searching and significant look. 

“ See here, my lord,” said Malcolm. 

Candle in hand, his lordship approached the bed. The same 
moment Mrs Catanach glided out with her usual downy step, 
gave a wink as of mutual intelligence to the group at the door, 
and vanished. 

On Malcolm’s arm lay the head of a young girl. Her thin, 
worn countenance was stained with tears, and livid with suffoca- 
tion. She was recovering, but her eyes rolled stupid and visi onless. 

It’s Phemy, my lord — Blue Peter’s lassie ’at was tint,” said 
Malcolm. 

“ It begins to look serious,” said the marquis. “ Mrs 
Catanach ! — Mrs Courthope ! ” 

He turned towards the door. Mrs Courthope entered, and a 
head or two peeped in after her. Duncan stood as before, drawn 
up and stately, his visage working, but his body motionless as 
the statue of a sentinel. 

“ Where is the Catanach woman gone ? ” cried the marquis. 

“ Cone ! ” shouted the piper. “ Cone ! and her huspant will 
pe waiting to pe killing her ! Och nan ochan 1 ” 

“ Her husband ! ” echoed the marquis. 

“ Ach ! she ’ll not can pe helping it, my lort — no more till one 
will pe tead — and tat should pe ta woman, for she ’ll pe a paad 
woman — ta worstest woman efer was maiTied, my lort.” 


THE CRY FROM THE CHAMBER . 41 1 

“ That’s saying a good deal,” returned the marquis. 

“ Not one worrt more as enough, my lort',” said Duncan. 
u She was only pe her next wife, put, ochone ! ochone ! why 
did she’ll pe marry her? You would haf stapt her long aco, my 
lort, if she’ll was your wife, and you was knowing the tamned fox 
and padger she was pe. Ochone ! and she tidn’t pe have her 
turk at her hench nor her sgian in her hose.” 

He shook his hands like a despairing child, then stamped and 
wept in the agony of frustrated rage. 

Mrs Courthope took Phemy in her arms, and carried her to 
her own room, where she opened the window, and let the snowy 
wind blow full upon her. As soon as she came quite to herself, 
Malcolm set out to bear the good tidings to her father and 
mother. 

Only a few nights before had Phemy been taken to the room 
where they found her. She had been carried from place to place, 
and had been some time, she believed, in Mrs Catanach’s own 
house. They had always kept her in the dark, and removed her 
at night, blindfolded. When asked if she had never cried out 
before, she said she had been too frightened ; and when ques- 
tioned as to what had made her do so then, she knew nothing of 
it : she remembered only that a horrible creature appeared by 
the bedside, after which all was blank. On the floor they found 
a hideous death-mask, doubtless the cause of the screams which 
Mrs Catanach had sought to stifle with the pillows and bed- 
clothes. 

When Malcolm returned, he went at once to the piper’s 
cottage, where he found him in bed, utterly exhausted, and as 
utterly restless. 

“ Weel, daddy,” he said, “ I doobt I daurna come near ye 
noo.” 

“ Come to her arms, my poor poy !” faltered D mean. “She’ll 
pe sorry in her sore heart for her poy! Nefer you pe minding, 
my son ; you couldn’t help ta Cam’ell mother, and you’ll pe her 
own poy however. Ochone ! it will pe a plot upon you aal your 
tays, my son, and she’ll not can help you, and it ’ll pe preaking 
her old heart ! ” 

“ Gien God thoucht the Cam’ells worth makin’, daddy, I 
dinna see ’at I hae ony richt to compleen ’at I cam’ o’ them.” 

“ She hopes you ’ll pe forgifmg ta plind old man, however. 
She could n’t see, or she would haf known at once petter.” 

“ I dinna ken what ye ’re efter noo, daddy,” said Malcolm. 

“ That she’ll do you a creat wrong, and she’ll be ferry sorry 
for it, my son.” 


412 


MALCOLM. 


“ What wrang did ye ever du me, daddy ? ” 

“ That she wav let you crow up a Cam’ell, my poy If she 
tid put know ti. <?aad plood was pe in you, she wouldn’t pe tone 
you ta vyrohg as pring you up.” 

“ That ’s 'x wrang no ill to forgi’e, daddy. But it ’s ?. pity ye 
didna la* me lie, for maybe syne Mistress Catanach wad hae 
broucnt me up hersel’, an’ I micht hae come to something.” 

“ Ta duvil mhor {great) would pe in your heart and prain and 
poosom, my son.” 

“ Weel, ye see what ye hae saved me frae.” 

“ Yes ; put ta duvil will pe to pay, for she couldn’t safe you 
from ta Cam’ell plood, my son ! Malcolm, my poy,” he added 
after a pause, and with the solemnity of a mighty hate, “ ta efil 
woman herself will pe a Cam’ell — ta woman Catanach will pe a 
Cam’ell, and her nain sel* she’ll not know it pefore she ’ll be in 
ta ped with the worsest Cam’ell tat ever God made — and she 
pecks his pardon, for she’ll not pelieve he wass making ta 
Cam’ells.” 

“ Divna ye think God made me, daddy ? ” asked Malcolm. 

The old man thought for a little. 

“ Tat will tepend on who was pe your father, my son,” he 
replied. “ If he too will be a Cam’ell — ochone ! ochone ! Put 
tere may pe some coot plood co into you, more as enough to say 
God will pe make you, my son. Put don’t pe asking, Malcolm. 
Ton’t you ’ll pe asking.” 

“ What am I no to ask, daddy ? ” 

“ Ton’t pe asking who made you — who was ta father to you, 
my poy. She would rather not pe knowing, for ta man might pc 
a Cam’ell poth. And if she couldn’t pe lofing you no more, my 
son, she would pe tie pefore her time, and her tays would pe long 
in ta land under ta crass, my son.” 

But the memory of the sweet face whose cold loveliness he 
had once kissed, was enough to outweigh with Malcolm all the 
prejudices of Duncan’s instillation, and he was proud to take up 
even her shame. To pass from Mrs Stewart to her, was to 
escape from the clutches of a vampire demon to the arms of a 
sweet mother angel. 

Deeply concerned for the newly-discovered misfortunes of, the 
old man to whom he was indebted for this world’s life at least, 
he anxiously sought to soothe him ; but he had far more and far 
worse to torment him than Malcolm even yet knew, and with 
burning cheeks and bloodshot eyes, he lay tossing from side to 
side, now uttering terrible curses in Gaelic, and now weeping 
bitterly. Malcolm took his loved pipes, and with the gentles* 


FEET OF WOOL. 


413 


notes he could draw from them tried to charm to rest the 
ruffled waters of his spirit ; but his efforts were all in vain, and 
believing at length that he would be quieter without him, he 
went to the House, and to his own room. 

The door of the adjoining chamber stood open, and the long 
forbidden room lay exposed to any eye. Little did Malcolm 
think as he gazed around it, that it was the room in which he 
had first breathed the air of the world ; in which his mother had 
wept over her own false position and his reported death ; and 
from which he had been carried, by Duncan’s wicked wife, down 
the ruinous stair, and away to the lip of the sea, to find a home 
in the arms of the man whom he had just left on his lonely 
couch, torn between the conflicting emotions of a gracious love 
for him, and the frightful hate of her. 


CHAPTER LXVII. 

FEET OF WOOL. 

The next day, Miss Horn, punctual as Fate, presented herself 
at Lossie House, and was shown at once into the marquis’s 
study, as it was called. When his lordship entered, she took the 
lead the moment the door was shut. 

“ By this time, my lord, ye ’ll doobtless hae made up yer min’ 
to du what ’s richt? ” she said. 

“ That ’s what I have always wanted to do,” returned the 
marquis. 

“ Hm !” remarked Miss Horn, as plainly as inarticulately. 

“ In this affair,” he supplemented; adding, “It ’s not always 
so easy to tell what is right ! ” 

“ It’s no aye easy to luik for ’t wi’ baith yer een,” said Miss 
Horn. 

“This woman Catanach — we must get her to give credible 
testimony. Whatever the fact may be, we must have strong 
evidence. And there comes the difficulty, that she has already 
made an altogether different statement.” 

“ It gangs for naething, my lord. It was never made afore a 
justice o’ the peace.” 

“ I wish you would go to her. and see how she is inclined.” 

“ Me gang to Bawbie Catanach !” exclaimed Miss Horn. “I 
wad as sune gang an’ kittle Sawtan’s nose wi’ the p’int o’ ’s taiL 


414 


MALCOLM. 


Na, na, my lord ! Gien onybody gang till her wi* my wuli, it s' 
be a limb o’ the law. I s’ hae nae cognostin’ wi’ her.” 

“ You would have no objection, however, to my seeing her, I 
presume — just to let her know that we have an inkling of the 
truth ? ” said the marquis. 

Now all this was the merest talk, for of course Miss Horn 
could not long remain in ignorance of the declaration fury had, 
the night previous, forced from Mrs Catanach ; but he must, he 
thought, put her off and keep her quiet, if possible, until he had 
come to an understanding with Malcolm, after which he .vould 
no doubt have his trouble with her. 

“Ye can du as yer lordship likes,” answered Miss Horn; “but 
I wadna hae ’t said o’ me ’at I had ony dealin’s wi’ her. Wha 
kens but she micht say ye tried to bribe her? There ’s naething 
she wad bogle at gien she thoucht it worth he . while. No ’at I 

*m feart at her. Lat her lee ! I ’m no sae b) ,te but 1 Only 

dinna lippen till a word she says, my lord.” 

The marquis meditated. 

“ I wonder whether the real source of ‘.ny perplexity occurs to 
you, Miss Horn,” he said at length. “You know I have a 
daughter?” 

“ Weel eneuch that, my lord.” 

“ By my second marriage.” 

“ Nae merridge ava’, my lord.” 

“ True, — if I confess to the firs'..* 

“ A’ the same, whether or no, my lord.” 

“ Then you see,” the marquis went on, refusing offence, “ what 
the admission of your story would make of my daughter?” 

“ That’s plain eneuch, my lord.” 

“ Now, if 1 have read Malcolm right, he has too much regard 
for his — mistress — to put her in such a false position.” 

“ That is, my lord, ye wad hae yer lawfu’ son beir the lawless 
name.” 

“ No, no; it need never come out what he is. I will provide 
for him — as a gentleman, of course.” 

“ It canna be, my lord. Ye can du naething for him wi’ that 
face o’ his, but oot comes the trouth as to the father o’ ’im ; an’ 
it wadna be lang afore the tale was ekit oot wi’ the name o’ 
his mither — Mistress Catanach wad see to that, gien ’twas only 
to spite me ; an’ I wunna hae my Grizel ca’d what she is not, for 
ony lord’s dauchter i’ the three kynriks.” 

“What does it matter, now she ’s dead and gone?” said the 
marquis, false to the dead in his love for the living. 

“ Heid ar/ gane, my lord ! What ca’ ye deid an’ gane ? Maybe 


FEET OF WOOL, 


415 


the great anes o* the yerth get sic a forlethie ( surfeit ) o f gran’ur 
'at they ’re for nae mair, an’ wad perish like the brute-beast. For 
onything I ken, they may hae their wuss, but for mysel’, I wad 
warstle to haud my sowl waukin’ (awake), i’ the verra article o’ 
deith, for the bare chance o’ seein’ my bonny Grizel again. — It 's 
a mercy I hae nae feelin’s !” she added, arresting her handker- 
chief on its way to her eyes, and refusing to acknowledge the 
single tear that ran down her cheek. 

Plainly she was not like any of the women whose characters 
the marquis had accepted as typical of woman-kind. 

“ Then you won’t leave the matter to her husband and son?” 
he said reproachfully. 

“ I tellt ye, my lord, I wad du naething but what I saw to be 
richt. Lat this affair oot o’ my han’s I daurna. That laad ye 
micht work to onything ’at made agane himsel’. He ’s jist like 
his puir mither there.” 

“ If Miss Campbell was his mother,” said the marquis. 

“ Miss Cam’ell !” cried Miss Horn. “ I ’ll thank yer lordship 
to ca’ her by her ain, ’an that ’s Lady Lossie.” 

What if the something ruinous heart of the marquis was habit 
able, was occupied by his daughter, and had no accommodation 
at present either for his dead wife or his living son. Once more 
he sat thinking in silence for a while. 

“ I’ll make Malcolm a post captain in the navy, and give you 
a thousand pounds,” he said at length, hardly knowing that he 
spoke. 

Miss Horn rose to her full height, and stood like 3‘ angel of 
rebuke before him. Not a word did she speak, onh looked at 
him for a moment, and turned to leave the room. The marquis 
saw his danger, and striding to the door, stood whh his back 
against it. 

“ Think ye to scare me, my lord?” she asked, with a scornful 
laugh. “ Gang an’ scare the stane lion-beast at yer ha’ door. 
Haud oot o’ the gait, an’ lat me gang.” 

“ Not until I know what you are going to do,” said the marquis, 
very seriously. 

“ I hae naething mair to transac’ wi’ yer lordship. You at’ 
me ’s strangers, my lord.” 

“ Tut ! tut ! I was but trying you.” 

“ An’ gien I had taen the disgrace ye offert me, ye wad hae 
drawn back?” 

“ No, certainly.” 

“ Ye wasna tryin’ me than : ye was duin’ yer best to corrup* 


me. 


416 


MALCOLM. 


“ I ’m no splitter of hairs.” 

“ My lord, it ’s nane but the corrup’ible wad seek to cor- 
rup’.” 

The marquis knawed a nail or two in silence. Miss Horn 
dragged an easy chair within a couple of yards of him. 

“ We ’ll see wha tires o’ this ghem first, my lord !” she said, as 
she sank into its hospitable embrace. 

The marquis turned to lock the door, but there was no key in 
it. Neither was there any chair within reach, and he was not 
fond of standing. Clearly his enemy had the advantage. 

“ Hae ye h’ard o’ puir Sandy Graham — hoo they ’re misguidin’ 
him, my lord ?” she asked with composure. 

The marquis was first astounded, and then tickled by her 
assurance. 

“ No,” he answered. 

“ They hae turnt him oot o’ hoose an* ha* — schuil, at least, an’ 
hame,” she rejoined. “ I may say, they hae turnt him oot o* 
Scotian’ ; for what presbytery wad hae him efter he had been fun’ 
guilty o’ no thinkin’ like ither fowk? Ye maun stan’ his guid 
freen’, my lord.” 

“ He shall be Malcolm’s tutor,” answered the marquis, not to 
be outdone in coolness, “ and go with him to Edinburgh — or 
Oxford, if he prefers it” 

“ Never yerl o’ Colonsay had a better ! ” said Miss Horn. 

“ Softly, softly, ma’am !” returned the marquis. “ I did not 
say he should go in that style.” 

“ He ’s gang as my lord o’ Colonsay, or he s’ no gang a tyour 
expense, my lord,” said his antagonist. 

“ Really, ma’am, one would think you were my grandmother, 
to hear you order my affairs for me.” 

“ I wuss I war, my lord : I sud gar ye hear rizzon upo’ baith 
sides o’ yer heid, I s’ warran’ 1” 

The marquis laughed. 

“ Well, I can’t stand here all day !” he said, impatiently swing- 
ing one leg. 

“ I ’m weel awaur o’ that, my lord,” answered Miss Horn, re- 
arranging her scanty skirt. 

“ How long are ye going to keep me, then?” 

“ I wadna hae ye bide a meenute langer nor *s agreeable to 
yersel’. But 1 ’m in nae hurry sae lang ’s ye ’re afore me. 
Ye ’re nae ill to luik at — though ye maun hae been bonnier the 
day ye wan the hert o’ my Grizzel.” 

The marquis littered an oath, and left the door. Miss Horn 
sprang to it ; but there was the marquis again. 


FEET OF WOOL. 417 

“ Miss Horn,” he said, “ I beg you will give me anothei day 
to think of this. ,> 

“ Whaur ’s the use? A’ the thinkin’ i’ the warl’ canna alter a 
single fac’. Ye maun du richt by my laddie o’ yer ain sel’, or I 
maun gar ye.” 

“ You would find a law-suit heavy, Miss Horn.” 

“ An’ ye wad fin’ the scandal o’ ’t ill to bide, my lord. It wad 

come sair upo’ Miss I kenna what name she has a richt 

till, my lord.” 

The marquis uttered a frightful imprecation, left the door, and 
sitting down, hid his face in his hands. 

Miss Horn rose, but instead of securing her retreat, approached 
him gently, and stood by his side. 

“ My lord,” she said, “ I canna thole to see a man in tribble. 
Women ’s born till ’t, an’ they tak it, an’ are thankfu’ ; but a man 
never gies in till ’t, an’ sae it comes harder upo’ him nor upo’ 
them. Hear me, my lord : gien there be a man upo’ this earth wha 
wad shield a wuman, that man ’s Ma’colm Colonsay.” 

“ If only she weren ’t his sister 1 ” murmured the marquis. 

“An’ jist bethink ye, my lord : wad it be onything less nor an 
imposition to lat a man merry her ohn tellt him what she was ? ” 

“You insolent old woman!” cried the marquis, losing his 
temper, discretion, and manners, all together. “ Go and do your 
worst, and be damned to you ! ” 

So saying, he left the room, and Miss Horn found her way out 
of the house in a temper quite as fierce as his, — in character, 
however, entirely different, inasmuch as it was righteous. 

At that very moment Malcolm was in search of his master ; and 
seeing the back of him disappear in the library, to which he had 
gone in a half-blind rage, he followed him. 

“ My lord ! ” he said. 

“What do you want?” returned his master in a rage. For 
some time he had been hauling on the curb rein, which had 
fretted his temper the more ; and when he let go, the devil ran 
away with him. 

« I thoucht yer lordship wad like to see an auld stair I cam 
upo’ the ither day, ’at gang’s frae the wizard’s chaumer " 

“ Go to hell with your damned tomfoolery ! ” said the marquis 
“ If ever you mention that cursed hole again, I’ll kick you out of 
the house.” 

Malcolm’s eyes flashed, and a fierce answer rose to his lips ; 
but he had seen that his master was in trouble, and sympathy 
supplanted rage. He turned and left the room in silence. 

Lord Lossie paced up and down the library for a whole hour 


418 


MALCOLM. 


— a long time for him to be in one mood. The mood changed 
colour pretty frequently during the hour, however, and by degrees 
his wrath assuaged. But at the end of it he knew no more what 
he was going to do than when he left Miss Horn in the study. 
Then came the gnawing of his usual ennui and restlessness : he 
must find something to do. 

The thing he always thought of first was a ride ; but the only 
animal of horse-kind about the place which he liked was the bay 
mare, and her he had lamed. He would go and see what the 
rascal had come bothering about — alone though, for he could not 
endure the sight of the fisher-fellow — damn him ! 

In a few moments he stood in the wizard’s chamber, and 
glanced round it with a feeling of discomfort rather than sorrow 
— of annoyance at the trouble of which it had been for him both 
fountain and store-house, rather than regret for the agony and 
contempt which his selfishness had brought upon the woman he 
loved ; then spying the door in the furthest corner, he made for 
it, and in a moment more, his curiosity, now thoroughly roused, 
was slowly gyrating down the steps of the old screw-stair. 

But Malcolm had gone to his own room, and hearing some one 
in the next, half suspected who it was, and went in. Seeing the 
closet-door open, he hurried to the stair, and shouted, — 

“ My lord ! my lord ! or whaever ye are 1 tak care hoo ye gang, 
or ye’ll get a terrible fa’.” 

Down a single yard the stair was quite dark, and he dared not 
follow fast for fear of himself falling and occasioning the accident 
he feared. As he descended, he kept repeating his warnings, but 
either his master did not hear or heeded too little, for presently 
Malcolm heard a rush, a dull fall, and a groan. Hurrying as fast 
as he dared with the risk of falling upon him, he found the mar- 
quis lying amongst the stones in the ground entrance, apparently 
unable to move, and white with pain. Presently, however, he 
got up, swore a good deal, and limped swearing into the house. 

The doctor, who was sent for instantly pronounced the knee, 
cap injured, and applied leeches. Inflammation set in, and another 
doctor and surgeon were sent for from Aberdeen. They came , 
applied poultices, and again leeches, and enjoined the strictest 
repose. The pain was severe; but to one ot the marquis’s 
temperament, the enforced quiet was worse. 


HANDS OF IRON. 


419 


CHAPTER LXVHL 

HANDS OF IRON. 

The marquis was loved by his domestics ; and his accident, with 
its consequences, although none more serious weie anticipated, 
cast a gloom over Lossie House. Far apart as was his chamber 
from all the centres of domestic life, the pulses of his suffering 
beat as it were through the house, and the servants moved with 
hushed voice and gentle footfall. 

Outside, the course of events waited upon his recovery, for Miss 
Horn was too generous not to delay proceedings while her 
adversary was ill. Besides, what she most of all desired was the 
marquis’s free acknowledgment of his son ; and after such a time 
of suffering and constrained reflection as he was now passing 
through, he could hardly fail, she thought, to be more inclined to 
what was just and fair. 

Malcolm had of course hastened to the school-master with the 
joy of his deliverance from Mrs Stewart ; but Mr Graham had not 
acquainted him with the discovery Miss Horn had made, or her 
belief concerning his large interest therein, to which Malcolm’s 
report of the wrath-born declaration of Mrs Catanach had now 
supplied the only testimony wanting, for the right of disclosure 
was Miss Horn’s. To her he had carried Malcolm’s narrative of 
late events, tenfold strengthening her position ; but she was 
anxious in her turn that the revelation concerning his birth should 
come to him from his father. Hence Malcolm continued in 
ignorance of the strange dawn that had begun to break on the 
darkness of his origin. 

Miss Horn had told Mr Graham what the marquis had said 
about the tutorship ; but the schoolmaster only shook his head 
with a smile, and went on with his preparations for departure. 

The hours went by ; the days lengthened into weeks, and the 
marquis’s condition did not improve. He had never known sick- 
ness and pain before, and like most of the children of this world, 
counted them the greatest of evils ; nor was there any sign of their 
having as yet begun to open his eyes to what those who have seen 
them call truths, those who have never even boded their presence 
count absurdities. 

More and more, however, he desired the attendance of Mal- 
colm, who was consequently a great deal about him, serving with 
a love to account for which those who knew his nature would nof 


420 


MALCOLM. 


have found it necessary to fall back on the instinct of the relation 
between them. The marquis had soon satisfied himself that that 
relation was as yet unknown to him, and was all the better 
pleased with his devotion and tenderness. 

The inflammation continued, increased, spread, and at length 
the doctors determined to amputate. But the marquis was ab- 
solutely horrified at the idea, — shrank from it with invincible 
repugnance. The moment the first dawn of comprehension 
vaguely illuminated their periphrastic approaches, he blazed out 
in a fury, cursed them frightfully, called them all the contemptu- 
ous names in his rather limited vocabulary, and swore he would 
see them uncomfortable first. 

“ We fear mortification, my lord,” said the physician calmly. 

“ So do I. Keep it off,” returned the marquis. 

“ We fear we cannot, my lord.” 

It had, in fact, already commenced. 

“ Let it mortify, then, and be damned,” said his lordship. 

“ I trust, my lord, you will reconsider it,” said the surgeon. 
“ We should not have dreamed of suggesting a measure of such 
severity had we not had reason to dread that the further prosecu- 
tion of gentler means would but lessen your lordship’s chance of 
recovery.” 

“ You mean then that my life is in danger? ” 

“ We fear,” said the physician, “ that the amputation proposed 
is the only thing that can save it ” 

“ What a brace of blasted bunglers you are 1 ” cried the 
marquis, and turning away his face, lay silent. 

The two men looked at each other, and said nothing. 

Malcolm was by, and a keen pang shot to his heart at the 
verdict. The men retired to consult. Malcolm approached 
the bed. 

“ My lord ! ” he said gently. 

No reply came. 

“ Dinna lea ’s oor lanes, my lord— no yet,” Malcolm persisted 
u What 's to come o’ my leddy ? ” 

The marquis gave a gasp. Still he made no reply. 

“ She has naebody, ye ken, my lord, ; at ye wad like to lippen 
her wi’.” 

“ You must take care of her when I am gone, Malcolm,* 
murmured the marquis ; and his voice was now gentle with sad- 
ness and broken with misery. 

“ Me, my lord!” returned Malcolm. “ Wha wad min’ me? 
An’ what cud I du wi’ her ? I cudna even haud her ohn wat her 
feet Her leddy ’s-maid cud du mair wi’ her — though I wad lay 


HANDS OF IRON. 421 

doon my life for her, as I tauld ye, my lord — an* she kens \ weei 

eneuch.” 

Silence followed. Both men were thinking. 

“ Gie me a richt, my lord, an’ I’ll du my best,” said Malcolm, 
at length breaking the silence. 

“What do you mean?” growled the marquis, whose mood 
had altered. 

“ Gie me a legal richt, my lord, an’ see gien I dinna.” 

" See what? ” 

“ See gien I dinna luik weel efter my leddy.” 

“ How am I to see ? I shall be dead and damned.” 

“ Please God, my lord, ye’ll be alive an’ weel — in a better 
place, if no here to luik efter my leddy yersel’.” 

“ Oh, I dare say ! ” muttered the marquis. 

“ But ye’ll hearken to the doctors, my lord,” Malcolm went on, 
u an’ no dee wantin’ time to consider o’ ’t.” 

“Yes, yes; to-morrow I’ll have another talk with them. 
We’ll see about it. There’s time enough yet. They’re all cox- 
combs — every one of them. They never give a patient the least 
credit for common sense.” 

“ I dinna ken, my lord,” said Malcolm doubtfully. 

After a few minutes’ silence, during which Malcolm thought 
he had fallen asleep, the marquis resumed abruptly. 

“ What do you mean by giving you a legal right?” he said. 

“ There’s some w’y o’ makin’ ae body guairdian till anither, 
sae ’at the law ’ill uphaud him — isna there, my lord? ” 

“Yes, surely. Well! — Rather odd — wouldn’t it be? — A 

young fisher-lad guardian to a marchioness ! — Eh ? They say 
there’s nothing new under the sun ; but that sounds rather like 
it, I think.” 

Malcolm was overjoyed to hear him speak with something like 
his old manner. He felt he could stand any amount of chaff 
from him now, and so the proposition he had made in serious- 
ness, he went on to defend in the hope of giving amusement, yet 
with a secret wild delight in the dream of such full devotion to 
the service of Lady Florimel. 

“It wad soon’ queer eneuch, my lord, nae doobt ; but fowk 
maunna min’ the soon’ o’ a thing gien ’t be a’ straucht an’ fair, 
an’ strong eneuch to stan’. They cudna lauch me oot o’ my 
richts, be they ’at they likit — Lady Bellair, or ony o’ them — na, 
nor jaw me oot o’ them aither ! ” 

“ They might do a good deal to render those rights of little 
U8& ‘-aid the marnuis. 

“That wad come till a trial o’ brains, my lord,” returned 


422 


MALCOLM 


Malcolm; “an’ ye dinna think I wadna hae the wit to speir 
advice — an’ what’s mair, to ken whan it was guid, an’ tak it 1 
I ‘here’s lawyers^ my lord.” 

“ And their expenses ? ” 

“ Ye cud lea’ sae muckle to be waured (spent) upo’ the cairryin* 
oot o’ yer lordship’s wull.” 

“ Who would see that you applied it properly ? ” 

“ My ain conscience, my lord — or Mr Graham, gien ye likit.” 

“ And how would you live yourself?” 

“Ow! lea’ ye that to me, my lord. Only dinna imaigine I 
wad be behauden to yer lordship. I houp I hae mair pride nor 
that. Ilka poun’-not’, shillin’, an’ baubee sud be laid oot for her , 
an’ what was left hainet (saved) for her.” 

“By Jove! it’s a daring proposal!” said the marquis; and, 
which seemed strange to Malcolm, not a single thread of ridicule 
ran through the tone in which he made the remark. 

The next day came, but brought neither strength of body nor 
of mind with it. Again his professional attendants besought him, 
and he heard them more quietly, but rejected their proposition 
as positively as before. In a day or two he ceased to oppose it, 
but would not hear of preparation. Hour glided into hour, and 
days had gathered to a week, when they assailed him with a 
solemn and last appeal. 

“ Nonsense !” answered the marquis. “ My leg is getting better. 

E feel no pain — in fact nothing but a little faintness. Your 
damned medicines, I haven’t a doubt” 

“You are in the greatest danger, my lord. It is all but too 
late even now.” 

“ To-morrow, then — if it must be. To-day I could not endure 
to have my hair cut — positively ; and as to having my leg off, — 
pooh ! the thing’s preposterous ! ” 

He turned white and shuddered, for all the non-chalance of 
his speech. 

When to-morrow came, there was not a surgeon in the land 
who would have taken his leg off. He looked in their faces, and 
seemed for the first time convinced of the necessity of the 
measure. 

“ You may do as you please,” he said. “ I am ready.” 

“ Not to-day, my lord,” replied the doctor. “ Your lordship is 
not equal to it to-day.” 

“ I understand,” said the marquis, paled frightfully, and turned 
his head aside. 

When Mrs Courthope suggested that Lady Florimel should be 

sent for, he flew into a frightful rage, and spoke as it is to be 


HANDS OF IRON. 


423 


hoped he had never spoken to a woman before. She took it 
with perfect gentleness, but could not repress a tear. The mar- 
quis saw it, and his heart was touched. 

“ You mustn’t mind a dying man’s temper,” he said. 

‘‘It’s not for myself, my lord,” she answered. 

“ I know : you think I ’m not fit to die ; and, damn it ! you 
are right Never one was less fit for heaven, or less willing to go to 
hell.” 

“Wouldn’t you like to see a clergyman, my lord?’* she 
suggested, sobbing. 

He was on the point of breaking out in a still worse passion, 
but controlled himself. 

“A clergyman ! ” he cried ; “I would as soon see the under 
taker. What could he do but tell me I was going to be damned 
— a fact I know better than he can ? That is, if it ’s not all an 
invention of the cloth, as, in my soul, I believe it is ! I ’ve said 
so any time this forty years.” 

“Oh, my lord, my lord ! do not fling away your last hope.” 

“You imagine me to have a chance then? Good soul l You 
don’t know better !” 

“ The Lord is merciful.” 

The marquis laughed — that is, he tried, failed, and grinned. 

“ Mr Cairns is in the dining-room, my lord.” 

“ Bah ! A low pettifogger, witli the soul of a bullock ! Don’t 
let me hear the fellow’s name. — I ’ve been bad enough, God 
knows ! but I haven’t sunk to the level of his help yet. If he ’s 
God Almighty’s factor, and the saw holds — ‘Like master, like 
man !’ well, I would rather have nothing to do with either.” 

“ That is, if you had the choice, my lord,” said Mrs Courthope, 
her temper yielding a little, though in truth his speech was not 
half so irreverent as it seemed to her. 

“Tell him to go to hell. No, don’t: set him down to a bottle 
of port and a great sponge-cake and you needn’t tell him to go to 
heaven, for he ’ll be there already. Why, Mrs Courthope, the 
fellow isn’t a gentleman ! And yet all he cares for the cloth is, 
that he thinks it makes a gentleman of him — as if anything in 
heaven, earth, or hell could work that miracle 1 ” 

In the middle of the night, as Malcolm sat by his bed, think* 
ing him asleep, the marquis spoke suddenly. 

“ You must go to Aberdeen to-morrow, Malcolm,” he said. 

“ Verra weel, my lord.” 

“ And bring Mr Glennie, the lawyer, back with you.* 

“ Yes, my lord.” 

* Go to bed then.” 


424 


MALCOLM. 


“ I wad raither bide, my lord. I cudna sleep a wink for wantin' 

to be back aside ye.” 

The marquis yielded, and Malcolm sat by him all the night 
through. He tossed about, would doze off and murmur strangely, 
then wake up and ask for brandy and water, yet be content with 
the lemonade Malcolm gave him. 

Next day he quarrelled with every word Mrs Courthope uttered, 
kept forgetting he had sent Malcolm away, and was continually 
wanting him. His fits of pain were more severe, alternated with 
drowsiness, which deepened at times to stupor. 

It was late before Malcolm returned. He went instantly to 
his bedside. 

“ Is Mr Glennie with you ? ” asked his master feebly. 

“ Yes, my lord.” 

“Tell him to come here at once.” 

When Malcolm returned with the lawyer, the marquis directed 
him to set a table and chair by the bedside, light four candles, 
get everything necessary for writing, and go to bed. 


CHAPTER LXIX. 

THE MARQUIS AND THE SCHOOLMASTER. 

Before Malcolm was awake, his lordship had sent for him. 
When he re-entered the sick-chamber, Mr Glennie had vanished, 
the table had been removed, and instead of the radiance of the 
wax lights, the cold gleam of a vapour dimmed sun, with its 
sickly blue-white reflex from the wide-spread snow, filled the 
room. The marquis looked ghastly, but was sipping chocolate 
with a spoon. 

“ What w’y are ye the day, my lord ? ” asked Malcolm. 

“ Nearly well,” he answered ; “ but those cursed carrion-crows 
are set upon killing me — damn their souls ! ” 

“ We ’ll hae Leddy Florimel sweirin’ awfu’, gien ye gang on that 
gait, my lord,” said Malcolm. 

The marquis laughed feebly. 

“An’ what’s mair,” Malcolm continued, “I doobt they he 
some partic’lar aboot the turn o’ their phrases up yonner, my 
lord” 

The marquis looked at him keenly. 

“You don’t anticipate that inconvenience for me?” he said. 
“ I 'm pretty sure to have my billet where they he not so precise.* 


THE MARQUIS AND THE SCHOOLMASTER. 425 


“ Dinna brak my hert, my lord ! ” cried Malcolm, the tears 
rushing to his eyes. 

“ I should be sorry to hurt you, Malcolm,” rejoined the marquis 
gently, almost tenderly. “ I won’t go there if I can help it I 
should n’t like to break any more hearts. But how the devil am 
I to keep out of it ? Besides, there are people up there I don’t 
want to meet ; I have no fancy for being made ashamed of my- 
self. The fact is I ’m not fit for such company, and I don’t be- 
lieve there is any such place. But if there be, I trust :n God 
there isn’t any other, or it will go badly with your poor master, 
Malcolm. It doesn’t look like true — now does it? Only 
such a multitude of things I thought I had done with for ever, 
keep coming up and grinning at me ! It nearly drives me mad, 
Malcolm — and I would fain die like a gentleman, with a cool 
bow and a sharp face-about.” 

“ Wadna ye hae a word wi’ somebody ’at kens, my lord?” said 
Malcolm, scarcely able to reply. 

“ No,” answered the marquis fiercely. “That Cairns is a fool.” 

“ He’s a’ that an’ mair, my lord. I didna mean him .” 

“ They ’re all fools together. * 

“ Ow, na, my lord ! There ’s a heap o’ them no muckle better, 
it may be ; but there ’s guid men an’ true amang them, or the 
kirk wad hae been wi* Sodom and Gomorrha by this time. But 
it ’s no a minister I wad hae yer lordship confar wi’.” 

“Who then? Mrs Courthope? Eh?” 

“ Ow na, my lord — no Mistress Coorthoup ! She ’s a guid 
body, but she wadna believe her ain een gien onybody ca’d a 
minister said contrar’ to them.” 

“ Who the devil do you mean then ? ” 

“ Nae deevil, but an honest man ’at ’s been his warst enemy 
sae lang ’s I hae kent him : Maister Graham, the schuilmaister.” 

“ Pooh !” said the marquis with a puff. “ I ’m too old to go 
to school.” 

“ I dinna ken the man ’at isna a bairn till him , my lord” 

“ In Greek and Latin?” 

“ I’ richteousness an’ trouth, my lord ; in what’s been an’ what 
is to be.” 

“ What ! has he the second sicht, like the piper?” 

“He has the second sicht, my lord — but ane ’at gangs a sicht 
farther than my auld daddy’s.” 

“ He could tell me then what ’s going to become of me ? r 

“ As weel ’s ony man, my lord.” 

“ That 's not saying much, I fear.” 

“ Maybe mair nor ye think, my lord.* 


426 


MALCOLM. 


“ Well, take him my compliments, and tell him I should like 
to see him,” said the marquis, after a pause. 

“ He ’ll come direckly, my lord.” 

“ Of course he will !” said the marquis. 

“ Jist as readily, my lord, as he wad gang to ony tramp 'at sent 
for ’im at sic a time,” returned Malcolm, who did not relish either 
the remark or its tone. 

“ What do you mean by that? You don’t think it such a 
serious affair — do you?” 

“ My lord, ye haena a chance.” 

The marquis was dumb. He had actually begun once more 
to buoy himself up with earthly hopes. 

Dreading a recall of his commission, Malcolm slipped from 
the room, sent Mrs Courthope to take his place, and sped to the 
schoolmaster. The moment Mr Graham heard the marquis’s 
message, he rose without a word, and led the way from the cot- 
tage. Hardly a sentence passed between them as they went, for 
they were on a solemn errand. 

“ Mr Graham ’s here, my lord,” said Malcolm. 

“Where? Not in the room?” returned the marquis. 

“ Waitin’ at the door, my lord.” 

“ Bah ! You needn’t have been so ready. Have you told the 
sexton to get a new spade ? But you may let him in. And leave 
him alone with me.” 

Mr Graham walked gently up to the bedside. 

“Sit down, sir,” said the marquis courteously — pleased with 
the calm, self-possessed, unobtrusive bearing of the man. “ They 
tell me I ’m dying, Mr Graham.” 

“ I ’m sorry it seems to trouble you, my lord.” 

“ What ! wouldn’t it trouble you then ?” 

u I don’t think so, my lord.” 

“ Ah ! you ’re one of the elect, no doubt I” 

“ That ’s a thing I never did think about, my lord.* 

“ What do you think about then ?” 

* About God.” 

“ And when you die you ’ll go straight to heaven of course !” 

“ I don’t know, my lord. That ’s another thing I never troubli 
my head about” 

“ Ah ! you ’re like me then ! / don’t care much about going to 
heaven ! What do you care about ?” 

“ The will of God I hope your lordship will say the same.” 

“ No I won’t I want my own will.” 

“ Well, that is to be had, my lord.” 

“How?” 


THE MARQUIS AND THE SCHOOLMASTER. 42) 

“ By taking his for yours, as the better of the two, which it 
must be every way.” 

“ That’s all moonshine.” 

“It is light, my lord.” 

“Well, I don’t mind confessing, if I am to die, I should prefat 
heaven to the other place ; but I trust I have no chance of either. 
Do you now honestly believe there are two such places ?” 

“ I don’t know, my lord.” 

“ You don’t know 1 And you come here to comfort a dying 
man!” 

“ Your lordship must first tell me what you mean by * two such 
places.’ And as to comfort, going by my notions, I cannot tell 
which you would be more or less comfortable in ; and that, I 
presume, would be the main point with your lordship.” 

“And what, pray, sir, would be the main point with you?” 

“ To get nearer to God.” 

“ Well, I can’t say / want to get nearer to God. It ’s little 
he ’s ever done for me.” 

“ It ’s a good deal he has tried to do for you, my lord.” 

“ Well, who interfered ? Who stood in his way, then ?” 

u Yourself, my lord.” 

“ I wasn’t aware of it When did he ever try to do anything 
for me, and I stood in his way ? ” 

“ When he gave you one of the loveliest of women, my lord,” 
said Mr Graham, with solemn, faltering voice, “ and you left her 
to die in neglect, and the child to be brought up by strangers.” 

The marquis gave a cry. The unexpected answer had roused 
the slowly gnawing death, and made it bite deeper. 

“ What ha wq you to do,” he almost screamed, “ with my affairs ? 
It was for me to introduce what I chose of them. You presume.” 

“ Pardon me, my lord : you led me to what I was bound t« 
say. Shall I leave you, my lord?” 

The marquis made no answer. 

“ God knows I loved her,” he said after a while, with a sigh. 

“ You loved her, my lord !” 

“ I did, by God !” 

“ Love a woman like that, and come to this ?” 

“ Come to this ! We must all come to this, I fancy, sooner ox 
later. Come to what, in the name of Beelzebub ?” 

“ That, having loved a woman like her, you are content to lose 
her. In the name of God, have you no desire to see her again?” 

“ It would be an awkward meeting,” said the marquis. 

His was an old love, alas ! He had not been capable of the 
sort that defies change. It had faded from him until it seemed 


428 


MALCOLM. 


one of the things that are not ! Although his being had once 
glowed in its light, he could now speak of a meeting as awkward ! 

“ Because you wronged her?” suggested the schoolmaster. 

“ Because they lied to me, by God 1” 

“ Which they dared not have done, had you not lied to them 
first.” 

“ Sir !” shouted the marquis, with all the voice he had left— 
“ O God, have mercy ! I cannot punish the scoundrel" 

“ The scoundrel is the man who lies, my lord.” 

“ Were I anywhere else ■” 

“ There would be no good in telling you the truth, my lord. 
You showed her to the world as a woman over whom you had 
prevailed, and not as the honest wife she was. What ki?id of a 
lie was that, my lord ? Not a white one, surely ?” 

“ You are a damned coward to speak so to a man who cannot 
even turn on his side to curse you for a base hound. You would 
not dare it but that you know I cannot defend myself/’ 

“You are right, my lord; your conduct is indefensible.” 

“ By heaven ! if I could but get this cursed leg under me, I 
would throw you out of the window.” 

“ I shall go by the door, my lord. While you hold by your 
sins, your sins will hold by you. If you should want me again, 
I shall be at your lordship’s command.” 

He rose and left the room, but had not reached his cottage 
before Malcolm overtook him, with a second message from his 
master. He turned at once, saying only, “ I expected it.” 

“ Mr Graham,” said the marquis, looking ghastly, “ you must 
have patience with a dying man. I was very rude to you, but I 
was in horrible pain.” 

“ Don’t mention it, my lord. It would be a poor friendship 
that gave way for a rough word.” 

“ How can you call yourself my friend ? ” 

“I should be your friend, my lord, if it were only for your 
wife’s sake. She died loving you. I want to send you to her, 
my lord. You will allow that, as a gentleman, you at least owe 
her an apology.” 

“By Jove, you are right, sir ! — Then you really and positively 
believe in the place they call heaven ? ” 

“ My lord, I believe that those who open their hearts to the 
truth, shall see the light on their friends’ faces again, and be able 
to set right what was wrong between them.” 

“ It’s a week too late to talk of setting right ! ” 

“ Go and tell her you are sorry, my lord, — that will be enough 
to her.” 


the marquis and the schoolmaster. 


429 


“ Ah ! but there’s more than her concerned.” 

“ Y ou are right, my lord. There is another— one who cannot be 
satisfied that the fairest works of his hands, or rather the loveliest 
children of his heart, should be treated as you have treated 
women.” 

“ But the Deity you talk of ” 

“ I beg your pardon, my lord : I talked of no deity ; I talked 
of a living Love that gave us birth and calls us his children. 
Your deity I know nothing of.” 

“ Call him what you please : — he won’t be put off so easily ! ” 

“ He won’t be put off one jot or one tittle. He will forgive 
anything, but he will pass nothing — Will your wife forgive 
you ? J> 

“ She will — when I explain.” 

“ Then why should you think the forgiveness of God, which 
created her forgiveness, should be less ? ” 

Whether the marquis could grasp the reasoning, may be 
doubtful. 

“ Do you really suppose God cares whether a man comes to 
good or ill ? ” 

“ If he did not, he could not be good himself.” 

“ Then you don’t think a good God would care to punish poor 
wretches like us ? ” 

“ Your lordship has not been in the habit of regarding himself 
as a poor wretch. And, remember, you can’t call a chiid a poor 
wretch without insulting the father of it.” 

“ That’s quite another thing.” 

“But on the wrong side for your argument — seeing the reJa* 
tion between God and the poorest creature is infinitely closer 
than that between any father and his child.” 

“ Then he can't be so hard on him as the parsons say.” 

“ He will give him absolute justice, which is the only good 
thing. He will spare nothing to bring his children back to him- 
self— their sole well-being. What would you do, my lord, if you 
saw your son strike a woman ? ” 

“ Knock him down and horsewhip him.” 

It was Mr Graham who broke the silence that followed. 

“ Are you satisfied with yourself, my lord ? ” 

« No, by God ! ” 

* You would like to be better ? ” 

“ I would.” 

“ Then you are of the same mind with God.” 

“ Yes ; but I’m not a fool ! It won’t do to say I should like 
to be. I must be it, and that’s not so easy. It’s damned hard 


430 


MALCOLM. 


to be good. I would have a fight for it, but there's no tim€l 
How is a poor devil to get out of such an infernal scrape ? ” 

“ Keep the commandments.” 

“ That’s it, of course ; but tnere’s no time, I tell you — at least 
so those cursed doctors will keep telling me.” 

“ If there were but time to draw another breath, there would 
be time to begin.” 

“ How am I to begin ? Which am I to begin with ? ” 

“ There is one commandment which includes all the rest*' 

“ Which is that ? ” 

“To believe on the Lord Jesus Christ.” 

“ That’s cant” 

“ After thirty years’ trial of it, it is to me the essence of wisdom. 
It has given me a peace which makes life or death all but in- 
different to me, though I would choose the latter.” 

“ What am I to believe about him then ? ” 

“ You are to believe in him, not about him.” 

“ I don’t understand.” 

“He is our Lord and Master, Elder Brother, King, Saviour, 
the divine Man, the human God : to believe in him is to give 
ourselves up to him in obedience, to search out his will and 
do it.” 

“ But there's no time, I tell you again,” the marquis almost 
shrieked. 

“ And I tell you, there is all eternity to do it in. Take him 
for your master, and he will demand nothing of you which you 
are not able to perform. This is the open door to bliss. With 
your last breath you can cry to him, and he will hear you, as he 
heard the thief on the cross who cried to him dying beside him. 
‘Lord, remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom.* 
* To-day shalt thou be with me in paradise.' It makes my heart 
swell to think of it, my lord ! No cross-questioning of the poor 
fellow 1 No preaching to him ! He just took him with him 
where he was going, to make a man of him.” 

“ Well, you know something of my history : what would you 
\aave me do now ? At once, I mean. What would the person 
*cu speak of have me do ? ” 

“ That is not for me to say, my lord.” 

“ You could give me a hint.” 

* No. God is telling you himself For me to presume to tell 
you, would be to interfere with him. What he would have a man 
do, he lets him know in his mind.” 

“ But what if I had not made up my mind before the last 
came ? ” 


END OR BEGINNING t 


43i 


" Then I fear he would say to you — * Depart from me, thou 
worker of iniquity.’ ” 

“That would be hard when another minute might have 
done it” 

“ If another minute would have done it. you would have . 
had it.” 

# A paroxysm of pain followed, during which Mr Graham 
silently left him. 


CHAPTER LXX. 

END OR BEGINNING? 

When the fit was over, and he found Mr Graham was gone, he 
asked Malcolm, who had resumed his watch, how long it would 
take Lady Florimel to come from Edinburgh. 

“ Mr Crathie left wi’ fower horses frae the Lossie Airms last 
nicht, my lord,” said Malcolm ; “ but the ro’ds are ill, an’ she 
winna be here afore sometime the morn.” 

The marquis stared aghast : they had sent for her without his 
orders. 

“ What shall I do ? ” he murmured. “ If once I look in her 
eyes, I shall be damned. — Malcolm 1 n 

“ Yes, my lord ! ” 

“ Is there a lawyer in Portlossie ? ” 

“ Yes, my lord ; there ’s auld Maister Carmichael.* 

“ He won’t do ! He was my brother’s rascal Is there no 
one besides ? ” 

“ No in Portlossie, my lord. There can be nane nearer than 
Duff Harbour, I doobt.” 

“ Take tjie chariot and bring him here directly. Tell them to 
put four horses to. Stokes can ride one.” 

“ I’ll ride the ither, my lord.” 

“ You’ll do nothing of the kind : you’re not used to the pole.” 

u I can tak the leader, my lord.” 

“ I tell you you’re to do nothing of the kind ! ” cried the 
marquis angrily. “ You’re to ride inside, and bring Mr — what’s 
his name ? — back with you.” 

“ Soutar, my lord, gien ye please.” 

" Be off, then. Don’t wait to feed. The brutes have been 
eating all day, and they can eat all night You must have him 
here in an hour/’ 


432 


MALCOLM. 


In an hour and a quarter, Miss Horn’s friend stood by the 
marquis’s bedside. Malcolm was dismissed, but was presently 
summoned again to receive more orders. 

Fresh horses were put to the chariot, and he had to set out 
once more — this time to fetch a justice of the peace, a neighbour- 
laird. The distance was greater than to Duff Harbour; the 
roads were worse; the north wind, rising as they went, blew 
against them as they returned, increasing to a violent gale ; and 
it was late before they reached Lossie House. 

When Malcolm entered, he found the marquis alone. 

“ Is Morrison here at last ? ” he cried in a feeble, irritated 
voice. 

“ Yes, my lord.” 

“ What the devil kept you so long ? The bay mare would 
have carried me there and back in an hour and a half.” 

“ The roads war verra heavy, my lord. An’ jist hear till the 
win’ ! ” 

The marquis listened a moment, and a frightened expression 
grew over his thin, pale, anxious face. 

“You don’t know what depends on it,” he said, “or you 
would have driven better. Where is Mr Sou tar 1 ” 

“ I dinna ken, my lord. I’m only jist come, an’ I’ve seen 
naebody.” 

“ Go and tell Mrs Courthope I want Soutar. You’ll find her 
crying somewhere — the old chicken ! because I swore at her. 
What harm could that do the old goose ? ” 

“ It’ll be mair for love o’ yer lordship than fricht at the sweirin’, 
my lord.” 

“ You think so ? Why should she care ? Go and tell her I’m 
sorry. But really she ought to be used to me by this time ! 
Tell her to send Soutar directly.” 

Mr Soutar was not to be found, the fact being that 
he had gone to see Miss Horn. The marquis flew into an awful 
rage, and began to curse and swear frightfully. 

“ My lord ! my lord ! ” said Malcolm, “ for God’s sake, dinna 
gang on that gait. He canna like to hear that kin’ o’ speech — 
an’ frae ane o’ his ain tu ! ” 

The marquis stopped, aghast at his presumption, and choking 
with rage ; but Malcolm’s eyes filled with tears, and instead of 
breaking out again, his master turned his head away and was 
silent. 

Mr Soutar came. 

“Fetch Morrison,” said the marquis, “and go to bed.” 

The wind howled terribly as Malcolm ascended the stairs an#. 


END OR BEGINNING ? 


433 


half felt his way, for he had no candle, through the long passages 
leading to his room. As he entered the last, a huge vague form 
came down upon him, like a deeper darkness through the dark. 
Instinctively he stepped aside. It passed noiselessly, with a long 
stride, and not even a rustle* of its garments — at least Malcolm 
heard nothing but the roar of the wind. He turned and followed 
it. On and on it went, down the stair through a corridor, down 
the great stone turnpike stair, and through passage after passage. 
When it came into the more frequented and half-lighted 
thorough-fares of the house, it showed as a large figure in a long 
cloak, indistinct in outline. 

It turned a corner close by the marquis’s room. But when 
Malcolm, close at its heels, turned also, he saw nothing but a 
vacant lobby, the doors around which were all shut. One after 
another he quickly opened them, all except the marquis’s, but 
nothing was to be seen. The conclusion was that it had entered 
the marquis’s room. He must not disturb the conclave in the 
sick chamber with what might be but “ a false creation, proceed- 
ing from the heat-oppressed brain,” and turned back to his own 
room, where he threw himself on his bed and fell asleep. 

About twelve Mrs Courthope called him : his master was 
worse, and wanted to see him. 

The midnight was still, for the dark and wind had ceased. But 
a hush and a cloud seemed gathering in the stillness and dark- 
ness, and with them came the sense of a solemn celebration, as 
if the gloom were canopy as well as pall — black, but bordered 
and hearted with purple and gold ; and the stillness seemed to 
tremble as with the inaudible tones of a great organ, at the close 
or commencement of some mighty symphony. 

With beating heart he walked softly towards the room where, 
as on an altar, lay the vanishing form of his master, like the fuel 
in whose dying flame was offered the late and ill-nurtured sacrifice 
of his spirit. 

As he went through the last corridor leading thither, Mrs 
Catanach, type and embodiment of the horrors that haunt the 
dignity of death, came walking towards him like one at home, 
her great round body lightly upborne on her soft foot It was 
no time to challenge her presence, and yielding her the half of 
the narrow way, he passed without a greeting She dropped him 
a courtesy with an uplook and again a vailing of her wicked eyes. 

The marquis would not have the doctor come near him, and 
when Malcolm entered there was no one in the room but Mrs 
Courthope. The shadow had crept far along the dial. His face 
had grown ghastly, the skm had sunk to the bones, and his eyes 


434 


MALCOLM. 


stood out as if from much staring into the dark. They rested 
very mournfully on Malcolm for a few moments, and then closed 
softly. 

“ Is she come yet ? ” he murmured, opening them wide, with 
sudden stare. 

“ No, my lord.” 

The lids fell again, softly, slowly. 

u Be good to her, Malcolm,” he murmured. 

“ I wull, my lord,” said Malcolm solemnly. 

Then the eyes opened and looked at him ; something grew in 
them — a light as of love, and drew up after it a tear ; but the lips 
said nothing. The eyelids fell again, and in a minute more, 
Malcolm knew by his breathing that he slept. 

The slow night waned. He woke sometimes, but soon dozed 
off again. The two watched by him till the dawn. It brought a 
still grey morning, without a breath of wind, and warm for the 
season. The marquis appeared a little revived, but was hardly 
able to speak. Mostly by signs he made Malcolm understand 
that he wanted Mr Graham, but that some one else must go for 
him. Mrs Courthope went. 

As soon as she was out of the room, he lifted his hand with 
effort, laid feeble hold on Malcolm’s jacket, and drawing him 
down, kissed him on the forehead. Malcolm burst into tears, 
and sank weeping by the bedside. 

Mr Graham entering a little after, and seeing Malcolm on his 
knees, knelt also, and broke into a prayer. 

“ O blessed Father ! ” he said, “ who knowest this thing, so 
strange to us, which we call death, breathe more life into the 
heart of thy dying son, that in the power of life he may front 
death. O Lord Christ, who diedst thyself, and in thyself 
knowest it all, heal this man in his sore need — heal him with 
strength to die.” 

Came a faint Amen from the marquis. 

“ Thou didst send him into the world : help him out of it. O 
God, we belong to thee utterly. We dying men are thy children, 
O living Father 1 Thou art such a father, that thou takest our 
sins from us and throwest them behind thy back. Thou 
cleanest our souls, as thy Son did wash our feet. We hold 
our hearts up to thee : make them what they must be, O Love, 
O Life of men, O Heart of hearts ! Give thy dying child courage, 
and hope, and peace — the peace of him who overcame all the 
terrors of humanity, even death itself, and liveth for evermore, 
sitting at thy right hand, our God-brother, blessed to all ages— 
amen.” 


END OR BEGINNING t 


433 


“ Amen ! w murmured the marquis, and slowly lifting his hand 
from the coverlid, he laid it on the head of Malcolm, who did 
not know it was the hand of his father, blessing him ere he died. 

“ Be good to her,” said the marquis once more. 

But Malcolm could not answer for weeping, and the marquis 
was not satisfied. Gathering all his force he said again, — 

“ Be good to her.” 

“ I wull, I wull,” burst from Malcolm in sobs, and he wailed 
aloud. 

The day wore on, and the afternoon came. Still Lady Florimel 
had not arrived, and still the marquis lingered. 

As the gloom of the twilight was deepening into the early 
darkness of the winter night, he opened wide his eyes, and was 
evidently listening. Malcolm could hear nothing ; but the light 
in his master’s face grew, and the strain of his listening diminished. 
At length Malcolm became aware of the sound of wheels, which 
came rapidly nearer, till at last the carriage swung up to the hall 
door. A moment, and Lady Florimel was flitting across the room. 

“ Papa ! papa ! ” she cried, and, throwing her arm over him, 
laid her cheek to his. 

The marquis could not return her embrace ; he could only 
receive her into the depths of his shining tearful eyes. 

“ Flory ! ” he murmured, “ I’m going away. I’m going — I’ve 
got — to make an — apology. Malcolm, be good ” 

The sentence remained unfinished. The light paled from his 
countenance — he had to carry it with him. He was dead. 

Lady Florimel gave a loud cry. Mrs Courthope ran to her 
assistance. 

“My lady’s in a dead faint !* she whispered, and left the 
room to get help. 

Malcolm lifted Lady Florimel in his great arms, and bore her 
tenderly to her own apartment There he left her to the care of 
her women, and returned to the chamber of death. 

Meantime Mr Graham and Mr Soutar had come. 

When Malcolm re-entered, the schoolmaster took him kindly 
by the arm and said : 

“ Malcolm, there can be neither place nor moment fitter for 
the solemn communication I am commissioned to make to you : 
I have, as in the presence of your dead father, to inform you that 
[ou are now Marquis of Lossie ; and God forbid you should be 
less worthy as marquis than you have been as fisherman ! ” 

Malcolm stood stupified. For a while he seemed to himself 
to be turning over in his mind something he had heard read from 
a book, with a nebulous notion of being somehow concerned 


43<5 


MALCOLM . 


in it. The thought of his father cleared his brain. He ran to 
the dead body, kissed its lips, as he had once kissed the forehead 
of another, and falling on his knees, wept, he knew not for what. 
Presently, however, he recovered himself, rose, and, rejoining the 
two men, said — 

“ Gentlemen, hoo mony kens this turn o’ things ? ” 

“ None but Mr Morrison, Mrs Catanach, and ourselves — so far 
as I know,” answered Mr Soutar. 

“And Miss Horn,” added Mr Graham. “She first brought 
out the truth of it, and ought to be the first to know of your re- 
cognition by your father.” 

“ I s’ tell her mysel’,” returned Malcolm. “ But, gentlemen, I 
beg o’ ye, till I ken what I ’m aboot an’ gie ye leave, dinna open 
yer moo’ to leevin’ cratur’ aboot this. There’s time eneuch for 
the waiT to ken ’t.” 

“ Your lordship commands me,” said Mr Soutar. 

“Yes, Malcolm, — until you give me leave,” said Mr Graham. 

“ Whaur ’s Mr Morrison?” asked Malcolm. 

“ He is still in the house,” said Mr Soutar. 

“Gang till him, sir, an’ gar him promise, on the word o’ a 
gentleman, to haud his tongue. I canna bide to hae ’t blaret a* 
gait an’ a’ at ance. For Mistress Catanach, I s’ deal wi’ her 
mysel’.” 

The door opened, and, in all the conscious dignity conferred 
by the immunities and prerogatives of her calling, Mrs Catanach 
walked into the room. 

“ A word wi’ ye, Mistress Catanach,” said Malcolm. 

“ Certainly, my lord,” answered the howdy, with mingled pre- 
sumption and respect, and followed him to the dining-room. 

“ Weel, my lord,” she began, before he had turned from shutting 
the door behind them, in the tone and with the air, or rather airs , 
of having conferred a great benefit, and expecting its recognition. 

“ Mistress Catanach,” interrupted Malcolm, turning and facing 
her, “gien I be un’er ony obligation to you, it ’s frae anither 
tongue I maun hear ’t But I hae an offer to mak ye : Sae lang 
as it disna come oot ’at I ’m onything better nor a fisherman born, 
ye s’ hae yer twinty poun’ i’ the year, peyed ye quarterly. But 
the moment fowk says wha I am, ye touch na a poun’ not’ mair, 
an’ I coont mysel’ free to pursue onything I can pruv agane ye.” 

Mrs Catanach attempted a laugh of scorn, but her face was grey 
as putty, and its muscles declined response. 

“ Ay or no ? ” said Malcolm. “ I winna gar ye sweir, for I wad 
lippen to yer aith no a hair.” 

“ Ay, mv lord,” said the howdy, reassuming at least outward 


END OR BEGINNING t 


43 7 


composure, and with it her natural brass, for as she spoke she 
held out her open palm. 

“ Na, na ! ” said Malcolm, “nae forehan payments! Three 
months o’ tongue-haudin’, an’ there ’s yer five poun’ ; an' Maister 
Soutar o’ Duff Harbour ’ill pay ’t intill yer ain han’. But brak 
troth wi’ me, an’ ye s’ hear o’ ’t ; for gien ye war hangt, the warl’ 
wad be but the cleaner. Noo quit the hoose, an' never lat me 
see ye aboot the place again. But afore ye gang, I gie ye fair 
warnin’ ’at I mean to win at a’ yer byganes.” 

The blood of red wrath was seething in Mrs Catanach’s face ; 
she drew herself up, antd stood flaming before him, on the verge 
cf explosion. 

“ Gang frae the hoose,” said Malcolm, “ or I ’ll set the muckle 
hun’ to shaw ye the gait.” 

Her face turned the colour of ashes, and with hanging cheeks 
and scared but not the less wicked eyes, she hurried from the 
room. Malcolm watched her out of the house, then following 
her into the town, brought Miss Horn back with him to aid in 
the last of earthly services, and hastened to Duncan’s cottage. 

But to his amazement and distress, it was forsaken, and the 
hearth cold. In his attendance on his father, he had not seen the 
piper — he could not remember for how many days ; and on inquiry 
he found that, although he had not been missed, no one could 
recall having seen him later than three or four days agone. The 
last he could hear of him in the neighbourhood was, that, about 
a week before, a boy had spied him sitting on a rock in the 
Baillies’ Barn, with his pipes in his lap. Searching the cottage, 
he found that his broadsword and dirk, with all his poor finery, 
were gone. 

That same night Mrs Catanach also disappeared. 

A week after, what was left of Lord Lossie was buried. Mal- 
colm followed the hearse with the household. Miss Horn walked 
immediately behind him, on the arm of the schoolmaster. It was 
a great funeral, with a short road, for the body was laid in the 
church — close to the wall, just under the crusader with the 
Norman canopy. 

Lady Florimel wept incessantly for three days ; on the fourth 
she looked out on the sea and thought it very dreary; on the fifth 
she found a certain gratification in hearing herself called the 
marchioness ; on the sixth she tried on her mourning, and was 
pleased ; on the seventh she went with the funeral and wept 
again ; on the eighth came Lady Bellair, who on the ninth carried 
her away. 

To Malcolm she had not spoken once. 


438 


MALCOLM. 


Mr Graham left Portlossie. 

Miss Horn took to her bed for a week. 

Mr Crathie removed his office to the House itself, took upon 
him the function of steward as well as factor, had the state-room® 
dismantled, and was master of the place. 

Malcolm helped Stoat with the horses, and did odd jobs fo? 
Mr Crathie. From his likeness to the old marquis, as he was still 
called, the factor had a favour for him, firmly believing the said 
marquis to be his father, and Mrs Stewart his mother. Hence he 
allowed him a key to the library, of which Malcolm made good 
use. 

The story of Malcolm’s plans and what came of them, require® 
another book. 



















LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



□ 00217^5537 


